The Nailer Girl
by Out of Options
Summary: Leaving her life in Devon to join her mother's kin in the Black Country was hard. Slaving in a nail shop was was harder still. Could young love offer her a way out?
1. Chapter 1

' **The Black Country, black by day, red by night.'**

 **Elihu Burritt, 1868**

* * *

Chapter 1

After the rolling hills, rich farmland, and deep peaceful valleys of the Devon countryside, arriving in the Midlands was like entering the antechamber of hell. Darkness was closing in with every mile but Molly could not tell whether it was true nightfall or simply a result of the grime and bitter choking smog thrown up by the extensive factory workings and mining taking place in the area.

When she'd changed trains in Birmingham she'd ended up sharing a carriage with a middle aged man who was proud to call the Black Country home. As the train had trundled North East towards Tipton, he'd told her something of the industrial history of the area and pointed out some of the major factories including the car plant for which he was a travelling rep. Then, with a rather disturbing glint in his eye, he'd told her about fiery holes – deep workings in the ground where the slack left by thick seam mining had spontaneously caught fire and burned unceasingly for years at a time. She shivered with pleasurable fear as he'd described how the smoke poured from the old mine entrances filling the air with sulphurous fog and choking the life out of entire villages.

As they had alighted from the train at Tipton she had looked about her somewhat desperately. Father Grey had said that she would be met at the station but other than a few other third class passengers and the station master there had been no one in sight.

The station was deserted now. Even her garrulous companion from Birmingham had gone, tipping her a cheery wink as he strode off to join his family. She felt as if she had lost her last friend in the world and wished desperately that she'd begged him to wait with her. She sat, exhausted and depressed, on the edge of her travelling trunk as the darkness settled around her. The station master tried to comfort her in his own rough way but she had never felt so lost and alone. She could feel the weight of unshed tears pressing at her eyelids.

* * *

Old Joe, her father, had never been the same since he'd gone away to war. The man who'd called her his sweet chavi and ruffled her dark curls as she snuggled in his lap in front of the hearth fire had died in Flanders field. What had returned was a mere shadow, a puppet, who'd laughed and smiled when prompted but was mostly lost in the horror of his memories. She had been nine when he'd gone to war and eleven when he'd returned. In his absence she had help Young Joe, her father's apprentice, by working the bellows and keeping the horses calm during shoeing. When he'd returned he'd shown Young Joe what there was left to teach him and allowed Molly to learn the farrier's art alongside him. An apprenticeship was seven years. Molly had completed five before her father died. It had caused some comment but as long as the work was done, and the lord of the manor was content, people were disinclined to comment.

Despite the deep contentment she'd found at the forge her father had become more and more and more of a stranger to her. Perhaps if her mother hadn't died of the flu back in 1919 things would have been ok; perhaps if she'd been a more dutiful daughter she could have saved him? Perhaps. Perhaps. But what was the point of perhaps? It had almost been a relief when she found him hanging in the barn. His pain was over and she had to believe that he was now reunited with her mother and all her siblings who never lived long enough to learn how to milk the cow, or work the bellows, or come chasing butterflies with her in the lower meadow. Still it had hurt to know that she could not help him and that he would rather that she be alone in the world than live with his own nightmares for a moment longer.

* * *

The village priest, Father Grey, was a good man. He had fought beside her father and knew the demons that had driven him to take his own life. Despite the vicious carping of the village good-wives, he'd given Old Joe a good send off and not even condemned him to the north side of the graveyard where tradition demanded that suicides were buried. After the service she had sat with him in his study in the small rectory planning what she would do with the rest of her life. She was 17 and the life she knew was over. She felt deeply out of place in the formal environment far more used to sweat in the forge

'Your mother told me once about her family.' Father Grey had said. 'I know that they were estranged but did she ever mention them to you?'

'Not really, Reverend. She only said that her own father had never accepted her marriage so she ran away. There was never any contact after that.'

'That is not strictly true', Reverend Grey said gently. 'After your grandfather died, your grandmother sent word begging your mother to contact her. Some letters were exchanged. As your mother could not really read and write, I was privy to the correspondence. When your father… died… I took the liberty of writing to the priest in your grandmother's village. You're to leave on the Saturday train.'

'What do you mean 'leave'?' She's asked in confusion. 'This is my home!'

Reverend Grey had looked at her sadly and slowly shaken his head. 'There is nothing here for you now child. The gossips will never let the matter of your father's suicide rest and you have no family here to support you.'

'But I have the forge. Dad taught me and Young Joe everything we need to know to keep it running.'

'Joe will be fine but people here will never accept you as a farrier.' He had patted her rather awkwardly on the knee before continuing. ' Your father was a craftsman. When he was alive they could overlook the fact that you assisted him. Now people need the certainty of the old ways again and they will reject that which does not fit. I've spoken to Lord Fallowfield. He agrees that Young Joe can take over the running of the forge in your father's place but you will have to go to your mother's family in Tipton'

'Tipton? Where be that to?' She had asked, confused.'

'The Midlands.' Came the solemn reply and five days later she had found herself in a third class train carriage with her whole life disappearing down the tracks behind her.

* * *

'Where be that to?' is a West Country way of asking 'Where is that?'


	2. Chapter 2

**'The Black Country, black by day, red by night.'**

 **Elihu Burritt, 1868**

* * *

Chapter 2

She'd been waiting about 30 minutes when a scowling middle-aged man with an impressive handlebar moustache stomped on to the platform. Grunting a moody greeting in the vague direction of the station master he made his way to where she sat.

'Molly Brown?' He asked brusquely. She nodded wearily in response. 'Well get a move on then. I don't have all day.' Without waiting for any further acknowledgement, he began to drag her trunk across the platform almost tipping her on to the floor. She leapt up and silently began to follow him, pulling her father's old army kitbag over her aching shoulders. She could feel the eyes of the station master boring in to her as she walked. He was disapproving, but of what she wasn't sure. That she was leaving with this unpleasant man perhaps but she had had enough of perhaps. She needed surety and at least this man, unwelcoming though he was, knew where she needed to go.

In front of the station there was a sad looking pony and a broken-down old trap. Heaving the heavy box up on to the luggage rack the grim-faced man thrust his chin over towards the passenger seat and grunted indicating where she was to sit. Cowed and slightly frightened she took her assigned place. The trap listed alarmingly as her companion settled his bulk into the driver's seat next to her. Without another word he clicked the pony in to a brisk walk.

The streets they travelled along were as dirty and foetid as Molly had feared they would be. She pulled her shawl tighter around her and held one fringed end against her mouth to keep out the worst of the dust thrown up by the pony's hooves. One of its shoes was lose and she itched to re-fix it before the beast was suffered permanent damage on the rough ground but her throat was too dry and raked by grit for her to utter a sound, even if she had managed to find the courage which seemed to have deserted her since alighting from the train at Tipton. Feeling like a coward she busied herself by examining her surroundings. After a few streets of decent housing the area gave way to rows and rows of damp and overcrowded back-to-backs. Light from the furnaces which were kept burning 24 hours a day throughout the area cast a demonic orange glow over the pinched faces of the local workers as they trudged their weary way to their homes to eat their meagre suppers or hurried towards the factories and forges for their next shift.

The two of them travelled in moody silence for about 20 minutes eventually reaching the edge of town. The roads were no longer paved here being instead a rutted mixture of mud, coal dust, and general filth. The houses that lined the way were older and more ramshackle than the back to backs nearer the station and instead of brick they were a mixture of stone and wood, and decaying wattle and daub. Each was set within its own small parcel of land and even through the gathering dark she could see that most had been set to growing vegetables. At the end of the street the trap juddered to a halt. Without saying a word, the driver got out, heaved up Molly's travelling chest, and then stomped up the path in front of him. Molly followed him, pausing only to scratch the pony's withers in gratitude. Her new home loomed out of the gloom, stunted and twisted with age. She could not picture sweet and gentle mother growing up in a such a dismal place.

She followed the man through the scullery door and into the parlour where the stink of decay and cheap lamp oil nearly overwhelmed her. As her eyes became accustomed to the flickering light she realised that there was a shrivelled old woman seated in a horsehair arm chair next to the fire. Startled Molly recognised her mother's eyes staring back at her through the gloom. The room was stuffed with memories and representations of family. There were photos of moustachioed men and stern looking women interspersed with old faded samplers stitched by generations of Pritchett girls. The beaten earth floor beneath her feet was protected by layers of home-made rag rugs.

Silently the old woman gestured that she should follow the man and her trunk upstairs and so Molly made her way up the rickety staircase in the corner of the room. At the top she found one bedroom covering most of the upper floor with a small alcove blocked off by a wicker hurdle used to give the occupants a measure of privacy. The man dumped her box in the alcove and then stomped his way back down the stairs almost knocking her over in his haste to get away.

On wobbly legs she walked into the partitioned off space. There was not much there: a wooden framed cot which sagged alarmingly was pushed against the outside wall with just enough room between it and the partition for her trunk; a thin shelf with some pegs below it to for her to hang her clothes on was set into the wall at the foot of the bed; and that was it. However, the walls were freshly whitewashed, there was a small rug covering the bare floorboards, and neatly sewn bags of lavender were hanging from one of the pegs resting on the thin bolster. Someone seemed to have attempted to make the area more welcoming which made her feel pathetically grateful.

Her mother had had the knack of laying out the most utilitarian of items and turning any room into a beautiful and welcoming space. Molly didn't have the same gift but she knew that she had to do something to make this cold, damp place feel more like home or she would never be able to sleep. She reasoned that she could use the top of her trunk as both a chair and table and also keep her clothes in it neatly folded but she had some things with her that she could set out that would bring her old life to mind. She hung her hat on one of the pegs then laid a cheerful patchwork bedspread over the cot. Finally, she set out pictures of her parents on the shelf alongside a small china cat that she had one at the fair. Her father's kitbag she tucked under the end of the cot before steeling her courage to go back downstairs.

When she made it back down to the parlour the man was gone; in his place there was a sullen woman with a black eye, seated on a stool next to the old woman. Molly hovered at the bottom of the stairs, jiggling nervously from foot to foot. Eventually the older of the two began to speak. Her Black Country accent was vaguely reminiscent of Molly's mother's though so thick that it made her head spin. But if she couldn't understand exactly what was said to her the kindness and sorrow in the old woman's eyes were unmistakable and when she opened her arms to her Molly launched towards her burying her face in the woman's warm lap and giving herself over to grief fully for the first time since her father's death. Her grandmother stroked her hair and cooed at her softly.

'There there, bab. Don't take on so. You're safe here with your Granny Pritchett.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Like a summer storm, the fury of Molly's tears swiftly blew themselves out. Embarrassed by such a public outpouring of emotion, she took a clean white hankie from the bodice of her dress and dried her eyes. She was shocked to see that after only an hour in Tipton her face was as grimy and as soot streaked as it had been after a day working in her father's smithy. He grandmother continued to stroke her hair comfortingly and she smiled up at her weakly. Then she heard a dismissive sniff from the second, younger, woman. She felt her grandmother's hand tighten briefly at the nape of her neck and then the old woman made the introductions.

'This is your uncle Archie's wife, Prudence.' There was a sense of deep and mutual disappointment in Granny Pritchett's pronouncement. 'Call her Prue.'

Molly looked at her aunt properly for the first time. She was a dumpty, sour faced woman of probably no more than 30 but to Molly's eyes she looked a good decade older. Even in the dim light she had the air of a woman who was perpetually disappointed in her life and her black eye gave mute testimony to one of the likely reasons for it. Molly smiled up at her hoping to draw a bit of warmth in return but all she got was a sneer.

'I don't see why we have to let this creature into our house. She'll bring misery here – just like her whore of a mother did. And who knows what pagan things she's learnt from her father.'

'Watch your mouth, Prue', Granny Pritchett hissed. 'I'll have no talk like that in my house.'

Prue tossed her thin curls arrogantly and sniffed again. It was not a pretty sight. 'Your house? Who is it that brings in most of the rent money these days? Not your old bones, that's for sure.'

'I birthed eleven children in this house, and raised three of them to adulthood, including your sorry excuse of a husband', Granny Pritchett said roughly. 'So yes it is mine – more'd it'll ever be yours at any rate.'

'On your head be it.' Prue shrugged, pulling her shawl more tightly about her lumpy body. 'I'm for bed. I want to be well asleep before Archie comes home from the pub.' She spun on her feet and stomped off up the rickety stairs. Once she was gone, the old woman sighed heavily.

'I'm sorry bab. I wish I had a better welcome to give you. Your uncle Archie, your mother's eldest brother that is, has never forgiven her for running off with your father. His own father said it shamed the family and he was foolish enough to take it to heart. And Prue is just grateful to have someone to look down on finally, the poor bitch. Come up here next to me love' She patted the stool next to her, inviting Molly to make herself more comfortable. Molly did so, shifting her tired, heavy body on to the embroidered cushion with a sigh of relief.

'Mum never talked about her life before Devon. Until I found your letters I never knew anything about you. Would you tell me about her?'

The old woman was silent for a long moment, eyes fixed on the flickering hearth fire. 'Pour us both a cuppa and I'll tell you the bones of it.'

When they were settled again, warming their hand on battered tin cups filled with sticky sweet black tea, Granny Pritchett began her tale.

'This was never a happy household', she said sadly. 'I made a foolish marriage and my husband, your grandfather, turned out to be a vicious brute. He was a hard worker right enough, but an even harder drinker and he took it out on me and the kiddies every Saturday night. Other than him, who was a chain maker, we were all of us working in the forge out the back. It's exhausting work as you'll find out soon enough.'

Molly wanted to ask what she meant but was afraid to interrupt the old woman's tale.

'Your mother was a good girl really. A little wild perhaps but pretty as a picture and good with a hammer – she more than earnt her keep. Then one summer some gypsies passed through on the way to Wolverhampton races. They needed access to a proper forge to get some iron work done and we were closest to where they were camping – so they came to us. When your mother met your father, it was like something out of a story book. If I hadn't been there I wouldn't have believed it. You could almost see the love taking root that moment when they met. Who could fight against it?'

Molly smiled in recognition. 'My earliest memories are of them just looking at each other. Completely silent. Not even touching. Just getting on with their work but their eyes were always following each other. It was different after the war but still – you could feel how much they cared about each other'

The old woman's face became grim. 'Your father left his clan and took work in town. This must have been 1907 or thereabouts. The next thing I know your mother's in the family way and begging to be allowed to marry him; oh, the scenes in the house! I don't even know how they managed to meet. It wasn't as if she had a lot of free time – not him neither. If it had been anyone else then your grandpa would have agreed to the wedding straight off - she wouldn't have been the first bride brought to bed a little early, not round here - but he hated the gypsies; loathed them. I don't know why. I could never get any sense out of him about it - he would just rage on like he'd lost his wits. One night he tried to beat the child right out of her but whatever was smiling down on your parent's love refused to let him win. She lived and so did you. The first chance she got, she ran.' Her rheumy eyes shone with unshed tears. 'I've lost many children over the years, from accidents, from disease, even one from hunger. She was the first one I was glad was gone from me.'

Molly reached out and took her granny's wrinkled hand in hers, squeezing it gently. She was surprised at the fierceness of the old woman's return grip; it almost made her wince.

'She never said anything but I'm sure she missed you.'

'Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I wish I could have protected her more when she was in this house and maybe even see you grow up. Still you're here now, bab, and there are some things you need to know.'

There was a distinct chill in the air now and it went right down into Molly's bones, as if all the warmth had been sucked out not just from the room but out of the whole world. She knew intellectually that it was simply a reaction to tiredness and emotional distress but here, in this grim, damp house it became all encompassing. She wasn't sure that she wanted to know everything that the old woman wanted to tell her, not now, not in her current fragile state at least, but there was clearly going to be no stopping her once she was of a mind to say her piece.

* * *

Thanks for the follows and feedback. :-)


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Molly's head was pounding; stress and emotional distress had combined to bring on the mother of all headaches. She wished she could unhear her grandmother's words, but the old woman had been determined to tell her the full, unvarnished truth whilst they had some privacy. It had been worse than she thought. Her life would be hard from now on, the old woman had told her plainly. The work would be unending and the living poor. She was a gypsy's bastard who was nothing but an unwelcome reminder of the family's long buried shame and nobody wanted her here. Even her grandmother would rather she had managed to find a place somewhere better.

It turned out that her uncle had only agreed to take her in because she knew her way around a forge and could therefore earn him more beer money. In return her past would be erased and never mentioned again by anyone. It would be put about that she was just a girl who had been taken on for piece work. Her grandmother would protect her as best she could but was relatively powerless. Molly's cot in the house had been all the old woman could get in return for her promise of silence. If not for that Molly would have been bedding down in one of the outhouses but it seemed that this was the limit of the old woman's influence.

Floating in the suffocating darkness, she replayed the end of their dismal conversation silently to herself. There had been something slightly unreal about it but if anything could have demonstrated the vast gulf between her old life and the new one it was this simple exchange.

'Can you make nails, bab?' The old woman had asked, staring at her intently over her half-finished cuppa.

'Of course', Molly answered with a soft smile. 'Making stud nails for shoeing was one of the first things I learnt. I made my first even before Da went off to fight.'

Granny Pritchett nodded with satisfaction and relaxed noticeably back into her chair. 'And how quickly can you make one?'

'About two minutes', she replied proudly. 'It depends on how delicate it needs to be. Da said I had a knack for it because I cared about getting them smooth and even so as not to damage the horses hoofs overmuch.'

'That's heartening to know but we have no time for fancy work here.' Granny Pritchett's gaze was sober and unforgiving. 'We make nails, true, but it's for the building trade not the lord of the manor's prize stallion so we do it quick and we do it dirty. At first, you'll be slower than most your age but eventually you'll catch up. In a few months you be banging out four nails a minute. That will be about 1,700 a day… although I could do more than two thousand in my prime. And Prue, sad little bitch though she is, isn't far off my best.' Despite her words there was no heat in Granny's pronouncement, only a kind of weary detachment.

Molly was so shocked that she almost laughed. Four nails a minute? It was ludicrous, impossible! Even her father couldn't work that fast and he could do almost anything using the alchemical trilogy of fire, metal, and hammer. As to the thought that taking more than 15 seconds to make a nail made it 'fancy work' - it was ridiculous. She truly though her grandmother was mazed. But longer the woman spoke the more it became clear that the she was serious. Molly had sat slumped on the prickly horsehair stool in despair. This time her grandmother's calloused hand stroking her hair was no comfort at all. All she could think of was how desperately grateful her mother must have been to escape with someone who truly loved her. How could she be expected to survive here where no one, except a single, powerless old woman, cared at all?

Now Molly was lying on the sagging mattress bought by her grandmother's last roll of the dice, the lavender bag under her head totally unequal to the task of covering up the musty smell coming from the damp bedding. From the main room she could hear her aunt's steady breathing. Knowing how much the woman despised her, she did not find her presence comforting in the slightest and the thought of her uncle's return made her shiver in terror. The man's presence had been discomforting enough when he had brought her to the house. Now she knew the depths of his hatred towards her she was pure frightened of him. Perhaps one of the outhouses would have been better after all – at least she would have had some distance.

Some untold time later she heard her uncle making his unsteady way up the stairs and staggering across the floor. By the creaking of floor boards Molly could tell that the man was watching her through the gap in the hazel hurdle. She closed her eyes tightly and slowed her breathing, pretending to be asleep. Eventually he tottered back over to his wife. There was a squeaking sound as he crawled drunkenly into bed, followed by a mild sleepy protest from her aunt. There was a sharp slap of hand meeting face and then, after a few moments, a pig like grunting. Molly could hear Prue making a soft whimpering sound. She pressed her palms against her ears - she didn't need to hear this on top of all the other horrors. After an endless moment the grunting stopped, and the snoring began. She could hear Prue sobbing softly in the darkness. She dearly wanted to weep along with her, but she held back her tears. If her aunt had hated her before, the knowledge that she had been witness to Archie's degradation of her would only make it worse.

Molly eventually dozed off not long before dawn; her dreams were full of horrors. For the first time since she died her mother visited her. The woman's shade said nothing which could help Molly escape from her situation, but she was full of dire warnings of slavery, murder, and pain.

Molly was wakened by someone roughly kicking the end of her bed. The bed creaked and swayed alarmingly as she started upright only to find her aunt glaring back down at her.

'Get up', the pinch faced woman said viciously. 'You've five minutes to get yourself some breakfast and then you need to be out and about.' Molly didn't bother to enquire as to what the woman meant. She knew there would be no helpful or supportive information coming from that direction. The best she could do was to be instantly obedient and flexible until she knew exactly how the land lay. Anything else, she feared, would lead to a beating, if not worse.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who is following and reviewing. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Seen in daylight, the cottage was even more decrepit. The walls shone with damp green mould and in sections the plaster had fallen away so that the crumbling wattle and daub could be seen. A fire smouldered sullenly in the hearth, sending up plumes of acrid black smoke. The draw on the chimney was poor and the room was thick with the choking fumes. Loud cawing could be heard from above which suggested that a family of crows nesting in the flue was the cause of the problem. What furniture there was was cheap and mismatched. Dizzy with fatigue, Molly took in the depressing scene with dismay.

In the hearth a steaming kettle was swinging from the rusted old fire hanger. Granny Pritchett nodded a sober greeting to her and, using a folded scrap of sacking to protect her hands, lifted the battered pot off its hook to pour out a couple of mugs of tea.

'Take a seat, bab', she said softly, as she added a large amount of sugar to the cup. Passing it to Molly she added. 'Once you've drunk this, you need to wash up quick. We've to go to church for the 10 o'clock service. After that I'll introduce you around. There are people in the town you'll need to become acquaint' of.' There was a note of something like a warning in the old woman's voice.

Nodding obediently, Molly supped down the thick tea. As it hit her stomach she could feel it taking the edge off her hunger and tiredness. A few moments later she was rinsing her hands and face in bowl of tepid water lying on a piece of old wagon tire next to the fire. Then, energized, she took a thick crust of lard smeared bread in her hand and strode back upstairs to get ready for church. Her aunt Prue watched her balefully through the wicker hurdle as she dressed. Even with what passed for a full belly, she found the woman's hateful stare discomforting.

Five minutes later she joined her grandmother, her uncle – who looked seriously the worse for drink, and her aunt in the street outside the house. Nervously she pulled her shawl about her shoulders and rammed her hat more firmly on her head. She followed where her grandmother lead, and the others fell into step alongside her. They made a miserable group as they joined the steady stream of people on the walk to the parish church of St John's. Few of their fellow church-goers bothered to acknowledge them as they hurried their way up the hill, although they chatted happily enough to one another. However, more than one of them spared Molly a glance of curiosity. With her straight limbs and clear skin, she stood out amongst the grey and shrunken locals like a swan in a flock of geese.

They walked briskly toward the church meeting other parishioners as they went, passing by rows of slum dwellings, small scale backyard workings, and factories whose furnaces burned even on the day of rest. On their right they passed Victoria Park, a brief splash of green amongst all the grey, and Granny Pritchett pointed out the top of the Cenotaph which commemorated the local dead from the Great War. Molly viewed it sadly. She would go there later, if she could, to say a prayer in memory of her father and the other men who were lost.

The church was packed by the time they arrived. The first few rows were filled with well-dressed people from the nicer parts of town, and behind them, taking up the rest of the pews, sat their household servants. The Pritchetts stood at the back with the rest of the metal workers, factory staff, and labourers. Once the service had started, Molly let the familiar rhythms lull her in to a comfortable dream state.

She responded automatically at appropriate moments, even sang when required, but her mind was far away in the Devon of her childhood. She remembered countless pleasant Sundays spent in the red sandstone church in Kenton where her family had had the privilege of sitting in one of the first three rows. Before the war her father had been a hale and hearty man with thick curling black hair and dark blue eyes. To Molly he had always seemed like a giant from a fairy tale, far too big and full of life to fit comfortably into one of the human sized pews. By contrast, her pale wisp of a mother had long worn herself to frailness through guilt and grief at her failure to bear her husband healthy children beyond one solitary daughter. If the gossips had considered them an ill-matched pair, or endlessly debated the reason for the woman's barrenness, then they had been wise enough to keep it amongst themselves, for the smith was well respected by everyone in the area for the quality of his work, his honesty, and his gentle treatment of his wife. Equally, his wife's generous heart and evident pain made her the object of much compassion and pity, however subtly expressed that was expressed. Yet despite their sorrows, they had been a close family and there had never been any doubt about the strength of the love between her parents, nor of the love they bore their only child. Molly would have given anything to go back to those pre-war years and be seated snugly between the two of them, whilst her father kept her entertained by doing little magic tricks with the coins for the collection plate and her mother smiled and pretended that she couldn't see what was going on. She missed them more than she had thought possible.

Before she knew it, it was time to take communion. As they queued for their turn at the altar rail Molly caught the eyes of a plump red-haired girl of about her own age, who was returning to her seat. She gave her a reflexive smile and the other girl returned it somewhat shyly. An instant later Molly felt a hard punch at the base of her spine. It was so vicious that it sent her stumbling forwards with a little gasp of pain, and she was lucky not to fall. Her grandmother turned and hissed at her in displeasure and she could feel the eyes of the rest of the congregation on her, concerned or judgemental according to their natures; her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She looked round to see who had hit her and saw her uncle looking back at her with hatred in his eyes. Any thought of asking him why he had done it died unspoken.

As she returned to her place after communion she once again met the eyes of the red-headed girl. This time they did not exchange smiles, instead the kneeling girl looked stricken and pretended to be deep in prayer, whilst Molly focussed on suppressing the pain from her bruised back. What was this hellish place? What had she done to deserve such treatment? Even being married to Young Joe and facing down the gossiping old biddies back home would have been better than this. She wished with all her heart that she had never made the long trip to Tipton.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

After the service, people flooded from the church and congregated on the road outside, chatting happily and enjoying the weak sunshine. The Pritchett group, however, were an isolated island in the ebb and flow of the crowd. Although Molly looked about her keenly taking in all the new sights, those around them were kept at bay largely by the ferocious glare on Archie's face but also, in part, by Prue's weepy and bruised eyes.

Growling, Archie grasped Molly roughly by the arm, squeezing cruelly as he pushed her back against the dry-stone wall which marked the boundary of the church yard. She gasped in pain as his strong fingers bruised her skin.

'If you ever draw attention on us again like that there'll be trouble, you stupid little bitch.'

Molly tried to pull away from him, but it only made him grasp her more viciously.

'That girl you were grinning at like an idiot. Her and her kin are bad people, parasites. We don't mix with them and they don't mix with us. We don't even acknowledge them if we don't have to. You need to learn what's what my girl; an' learn it right quick an' all. We can't afford you making us unpopular in town.' He released her arm abruptly and she rocked unsteadily on her feet, eyes wide with fear.

'I d-d-don't know what you mean!'

Archie peered at her belligerently, then gave a dismissive snort. 'Mom – you can deal with her. I haven't the time to waste.' Turning on his heels he slouched off to join a small group of disreputable looking men who were loitering far down the other side of the street.

Molly leant back shakily against the wall, grateful for its solidity. Her heart was pounding from shock and she felt slightly sick. No one had ever treated her like this before. For all the traumas of recent years her young childhood had been idyllic. She had been petted and cossetted by her parents all her young life and they had never denied her anything that she had truly wished for. Even learning to work at the forge had come about because she had begged and pleaded until her father could no longer deny her. She had been spoilt no doubt but at least she had known she was loved and wanted. This place was totally alien to her with its violence, misery, and threats – like something out of a nightmare.

She looked towards her grandmother in the hope that she would find some measure of comfort or kindness there, but the old woman wasn't even looking at her. Instead she was facing back towards the church watching fixedly as the last few people took their leave of the vicar. It wasn't just her either. Everyone else remaining in the street was staring too. Even Prue had been roused from her customary torpor and was stood frozen, intent on the group by the church door, looking for all the world like a doe poised to run from a hunter. The man shaking the priest's hand was tall, plump, and well dressed. Next to him was a delicate mousy woman and a small boy dressed in a smaller version of his father's suit. Hanging awkwardly to the back of the group was the same redheaded girl that Molly had smiled at in church. The hatred in the throng in the street as they watched them was palpable at least to Molly if not the group by the church; there was total silence as the family made their way haughtily down the path, out on to the street, and then headed homewards.

Once they had all disappeared from view, life returned to the street. Voices were raised in a hubbub of laughter and gossip, single young men and women made surreptitious eyes at one another as they paraded nonchalantly around, and children darted about, getting under everyone's feet, lost in a world with complex rules of its own. Eventually Granny shook herself as if awaking from a deep sleep and turned to Prue.

'Best you get home now. Archie will be wanting his dinner after he gets back from the pub and you know what he'll be like if it isn't ready when he wants it. There's scrag end of mutton in the meat locker ready for stewing. I'll show missy about and then after dinner we'll see how good she is with a hammer.'

Shrinking back in to herself, Prue did as she was bidden and sloped off down the hill without a backward glance. How long would it be, Molly wondered, before she too was so beaten down that she could not summon up enough energy to even have an opinion over what she did with her own life. The mere thought was depressing and despite the sunshine she felt a chill in her bones. That said she was not yet ready to lie down and die just yet.

'What was Archie talking about?' She asked boldly, holding her chin up as arrogantly as a queen. 'Who were those people who just left and why does everyone seem to dislike them so much?'

Granny looked at her darkly. 'Archie may be a half-soaked lummox but he was right about one thing – those people are parasites. The man is a fogger.' She hawked and spat.

Molly fought to hide a moue of disgust at this coarse behaviour. 'A what?'

'A fogger is a kind of middle-man', the old woman continued. 'They sell us the spikes that we use to make the nails every morning and then buy the nails off us at the end of the day. There's not so many of them about these days now that most of the work is being done in the factories but of the ones that are about he's certainly the richest and most successful in Tipton. And he does it by bleeding us dry at every opportunity.'

'But why stand for it? Why not buy direct or work in one of the factories instead, if that's where most of the work is?'

Granny Pritchett looked at her with what could only be described as irritation laced with despair. 'If we could buy direct don't you think I'd suggest it? But where do you think the money would come from, eh? The foggers let us have credit but the wholesalers wouldn't dream of it and we barely make enough money by the day to make the rent and keep us in fettle. There's none spare for saving. As for factory work… Archie won't hear of it and they won't take us on without his permission, so we're stuck.'

'But if…'

'No more questions now, bab', the old woman said with a sigh. 'I need to introduce you around and show you where things are before we lose too much more of the day. Follow me close, be respectful, and say nowt if you don't need to. There'll be enough cantin' as it is without you causin' more trouble.' Without waiting for a reply, she strode off to join a nearby group of gossiping women leaving Molly gasping slightly at the unfairness of it all.

* * *

A Peaky Blinder will make an appearance in the not too distant future, I promise!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Granny's introduction was brief and to the point. Some of it was even true.

'This is Molly', she said. 'The new live-in girl. She'll be helping us out while Annie's pregnant. If she proves her worth we'll keep her on.'

Molly found herself the focus of intense stares from five sets of bright beady eyes. She felt uncomfortably like a yearling at a horse fair. She half expected one of them to try to check the state of her feet. She gave them all what she hoped would pass for a polite and amenable smile.

The eldest woman puffed hard on her pipe, cheeks hollowing in a way that suggested she had very few remaining teeth. 'She doesn't look like the usual type', she said suspiciously. 'She know her way around a forge?'

'She's got metalwork in her blood. On both sides.' Granny's voice was firm, and she had an arrogant tilt to her head, almost daring the other woman to doubt her. Molly recognised it. She had the same mannerism, something which she'd inherited from her mother and, clearly, from her mother's mother.

'Well she can't be anymore cack-handed than Maggie's youngest. You don't want to be standing anywhere near her when she's working – the silly wench nearly took her own sister's head clean off last week.' The old woman giggled. It was a surprisingly sweet and girlish sound; totally incongruous coming as it did from a sour-faced old woman with shoulders like a navvy.

'If she's too good you'll have trouble keeping her.' One of the other women said, eyes twinkling with mischief. 'There's plenty of young men around here looking for a wife who's good with her hands.' The words were accompanied by an evocative hand gesture causing gales of knowing laughter from the little group. Filthy minded old besoms, Molly though as she flushed a deep red, but her obvious embarrassment only made them snicker harder.

After a few more minutes of chaffing and gossip, during which Molly prayed for the ground to swallow her up, they moved on to another group of women where the introductions were repeated, then another, and another. Between groups, Granny Pritchett gave her a running commentary on who was who. By the end Molly's head was spinning but she remembered a few highlights: Hetty Wisden (the one with the with the wall-eye) was a nasty piece of work who would lie soon as look at you; Old Bess (her that talked to herself) was daft as a brush but could knock out more chains in a day that almost anyone; Nanna Smith (the one with discretion) was good with herbs and simples; and the (absent as usual) Alice Cobb was having yet another bastard, and she had no more idea of the father to this one than she had for any of the others. Granny Pritchett was of the opinion that Alice Cobb needed a good long talk with Nanna Smith, and sooner rather than later. Molly hadn't been quite sure what that meant but the old woman's cronies clearly agreed, given the amount of nodding and significant glances.

Once the socialising was done, Granny took her off to show her where things could be found about the town. As it was Sunday, almost everything was closed, but it was still possible for Molly to get an idea of how things fitted together. In the centre there was a short parade of shops including a butcher's, an apothecary, and a general store. Slightly apart, to reduce the risk of fire, stood a bakery. This last shop was open as it was used on a Sunday by those with joints to roast but no oven in which to do it. The baker provided this service at cost, as it meant that he had an excuse to keep his ovens warm ready for proving his dough early on Monday morning. Molly sniffed longingly at the slabs of beef and the occasional roast chicken being taken back to houses all over town but knew that she would have to content herself with mutton stew. She detested mutton but she was near hungry enough to eat her own shoes.

After the shops, Granny Pritchett pointed out some of the most important factories and foundries in the area, including the one in which Archie worked. Then, with Archie clearly still on her mind, the old woman pointed out his favourite pub. I was an insalubrious little place, which seemed to be held together by grime and moss. Molly's nose wrinkled fastidiously at the sight of it.

'See you don't disturb him there unless you have no choice', her grandmother said darkly. 'It's no place for a Christian woman and he'll not thank you for it in any case.' The old woman reached out one hooked finger and ran it gently down Molly's smooth, plump cheek. 'And when he's got the drink in him, whatever he says, agree. If he asks you to do something do it without questioning him or talking back.' She grasped Molly's chin between two vicelike fingers and stared fiercely at her. 'You've seen Prue's face', she hissed. 'Don't give him an excuse to do the same to you. Not like your poor mother did.'

Molly shivered at the ancient pain in her grandmother's eyes. 'I'll t-t-try my best', she stammered.

'See that you do.'

Almost visibly shaking off the grim mood that had overtaken her, the old woman led Molly down a narrow track.

'Where are we going?' Molly asked, curiously.

'It's a nice day, so I thought I'd take you back along the cut.' Seeing her granddaughter's confusion, she said. 'The canal. I may even be able to show you where your mother and father used to meet.' She smiled gently. 'It's only right you should know something of them.'

Once they reached the seclusion of the cut, Granny Pritchett seemed to relax. The sun came out from behind a cloud and she released her hold on her shawl slightly.

'Your father's people were on their way to Wolverhampton racecourse. I'm not sure even now if they had horses of their own to race or if they just wanted to buy or steal one. Your father didn't talk about them much. He just said that he was glad to be free of them. His brother had wanted him to marry a woman that had been chosen for him, but Joe hadn't taken to her. It was all to be decided at the races that month but when he met your mother he had to have her and that was the end of it.' The old woman chewed at her lip nervously.

'What was he like, my dad?' Molly asked, intrigued.

'Charming', Granny Pritchett said shortly. Molly smiled but the old woman did not. 'He could charm skittish horses into lifting their hoofs willingly for shoeing', she said gruffly. 'He could charm the very birds down from the trees an' all. So, I suppose that charming one innocent young girl into giving up her virtue was but the work of afternoon for him. Fortunately for your mother, whilst he was making her fall in love with him, she was doing the same in reverse.'

They walked silently, side by side for a while, allowing the weak sunshine to warm their cold bones; the cool breeze whipping the small waves on the surface of the water. In the background birds argued loudly amongst themselves. Eventually, the old woman began to speak again.

'I don't mean to say that your father was a bad man - certainly not in the manner of the rest of his kin – but he had a certain easy way about him, and your mother had no defence against it.' She came to a standstill and pointed to an expanse of meadow land just visible through a small copse of trees. 'That's where your father's kin used to halt. Your parents used to meet at an old way station just a bit further on. The clan stopped coming back sometime after he left them and I haven't seen them for years. It's another lot what comes now. Less dangerous, I think, but you must still avoid this place when the racing's on. A lot of harm can come to a young girl in a place like this.'

Setting a quick pace, the old woman headed for home forcing Molly to run to catch her up. As if sensing a change in the atmosphere, the birds ceased to sing.


	8. Chapter 8

The best forges are little brick shops of about 15 feet by 12 feet in which seven or eight individuals constantly work together with no ventilation except the door and two slits, a loop-hole in the wall. The majority of these workplaces are very much smaller and filthy dirty and on looking in upon one of them when the fire is not lighted presents the appearance of a dilapidated coal-hole. [...] The filthiness of the ground, the half-ragged, half-naked, unwashed persons at work, and the hot smoke, ashes, water and clouds of dust are really dreadful".

The Midland Mining Commission report of 1843

* * *

Chapter 8

Molly's first proper sight of the Pritchett nail shop was depressing. That morning she had assumed that the building was nothing more than a semi-derelict storage shed – now she knew that it was the place in which she would be working from dawn to dusk for as long as she remained in Tipton. The place was in shadow now, dark and filthy dirty, the only light coming from the low doorway and a few loopholes placed at intervals in the wall. The smell was ripe too, a mixture of decay, sweat, and cheap coal.

Granny Pritchett fetched a burning switch from the cottage and kindled the fire in the forge. At her request, Molly worked the bellows to bring the flames up to a fierce heat.

'Leave it to settle now, bab', Granny said eventually. 'And go and fetch your father's tools. When you come back we'll see how well you can handle a hammer.'

Darting into the cottage, she dodged Prue's malevolent form huddled over the cooking fire, and went to retrieve her father's tools from under her cot in the attic. The mere thought of the tools brought back memories of her father. As she pulled the case from below her bed she felt a familiar guilt rolling over her.

* * *

Young Joe had presented her with her father's personal hammers, rasps, and clinchers the afternoon before she left for Tipton. He'd said stolidly that it wouldn't be right for him to use another man's tools – not even his craft master's - then he'd kissed her cheek and blushed. For one dreadful moment she had thought that the girt big lummox was going to declare his feelings towards her. Even the thought of moving half way across the country had been better than that horrifying eventuality! Fortunately, something, possibly the look in her eyes, had prevented him from speaking further. Instead he had just stood there in the dimpsy light wriggling like a child who needed the privy and turning his cap over and over in his hands. When she'd said a firm goodbye to him he had reacted with what could only be described as relief and headed back to the smithy where his muscles could do his speaking for him.

He hadn't come to see her off.

* * *

When Molly returned to the shop with the tools she found that her grandmother had placed three rods ready in the fire to heat.

'We make 3" square tapered nails with a rosehead here.' The old woman said. 'Can you manage that or do you need me to show you how?'

Molly shook her head. 'I can manage.' She sounded calm but she was unaccountably nervous. Something about the tension in her grandmother's face, and the set of the woman's shoulders, had impressed on her the importance of this trial going well.

Without the need for any further instructions, Molly looked at each of the rods in turn to identify the one which was ready for working. Finding one which suited her purpose, she took it to a small nailer's block which was conveniently placed so as to allow the worker easy access to a part of the fire which caught the natural breeze from the doorway allowing it to maintain a constant high heat.

Using her father's favourite hammer, Molly shaped the end of the rod into a point. The clanging of hammer on white hot metal soothed her and she allowed her body to drift into its well accustomed rhythms, all tension set aside. Using a gauge passed to her by her grandmother, she measured the rod and used a hardy to cut it to the required length. Then she slid the metal spike into a bore hole in the block and, with a few quick hammer strokes, formed the nail head. With the final stroke she activated the whimsey which allowed the completed nail to be released from its slot. Using some tongs, she reached down and collected the completed piece which she then passed to her grandmother. It was well made, she though, even if she did say so herself. Her grandmother could surely have no complaints.

The old woman looked at the nail stony faced. Inside she was relieved that her granddaughter actually had the skill she claimed – it really was a finely worked nail – yet at the same time she was concerned. At the rate she was currently working, Molly would be able to make no more than 20 or 30 nails an hour, which was a long way short of the 200 or so which would be required for them to make enough money to pay the rent and buy food.

'The nail itself is acceptable', she said roughly. 'But you must work significantly faster if you mean to keep a place here.'

'But this is as fast as I know how to work.'

'Move aside bab. I'll show you some tricks to help you speed up.'

Taking her place at the block, Granny Pritchett showed Molly how to work with multiple rods at once so that one or two would always be in the fire whilst the other was being hammered. This meant that the nailer didn't have to waste time waiting for their current piece to heat back up to working temperature before finishing it. The old woman also showed her where she could cut corners or leave in acceptable imperfections.

Molly absorbed her grandmother's lessons as easily as she had absorbed everything that her father had taught her. When she replaced the old woman at the fire she was much quicker at her work. For the next hour Molly replicated what she had seen, her body internalising the new way of working and committing it to its muscle memory.

Granny Pritchett was impressed with the way her granddaughter had picked up the new ways. By the end of the second hour the girl was producing 2 nails a minute. Her movements were smooth and confident. Further speed would come with practice.

Once the practice session was over the two women stretched their aching limbs and smiled at one another.

'That felt good', Molly said with a sigh. 'But I'm sure I'll ache tomorrow.'

'It will come easier with time. And you'll get much quicker. You might even end up better than your mother.'

Molly looked up at her grandmother askance. 'I never saw her work the fire. She was so fragile, I can hardly believe it.'

'Believe it? It was second nature to her, and clearly to you too. You took her favourite spot at the fire. No thought to it, you just instinctively knew the best place to stand. This is in your blood. You'll do well here.'

In the distance they could hear Archie returning from the pub. Loud voiced, angry, hungry he stormed around the cottage. Instinctively, both women cringed. Then, forcing herself to move, the old woman said that they should return to the house. They went back reluctantly.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Wearily, Molly followed Granny Pritchett back towards the cottage. She could hear Archie shouting within. He had plainly found fault with something that Prue had done. Hunching her shoulders miserably, Molly ducked inside the door behind the old woman. The parlour was close and the prevailing scent was one of slightly ripe boiled meat, smothering even the usual stench of damp and decay. Even though she heartily disliked mutton, Molly felt her stomach roil at the smell. She couldn't stop her mouth from watering.

Once her eyes had adjusted to the oppressive gloom, Molly was not surprised in the slightest to see Prue holding a protective hand pressed tightly against her cheek and swelling eye. A thin trickle of blood was When Granny Pritchett had opened the door, she had been careful to make sufficient noise to warn those inside that she was coming. If nothing else it had frozen Archie in his tracks and prevented him landing any further blows on his cowering wife.

Taking care not to meet anyone's eye she made her way slowly up the stairs to her little alcove dragging her father's kit bag behind her. The tools were far too valuable to leave in the nail shop overnight where anyone could get hold of them. Halfway up the heavy bag slid from her shoulder and bumped against the plaster causing a large lump to fall to the floor. Eyes widening in horror, she scooped up the evidence of her crime she hurried up the last few steps. She had to hide it. She couldn't risk drawing her Uncle's anger. Scrabbling desperately under her cot, Molly found a lose floor board and slid the offending plaster into the gap then slid the bag of tools in on top. Once her heart stopped racing, she made her unwilling way back down to join the rest of her family for supper.

* * *

Supper proved to be even more dreadful than Molly had predicted. The mutton stew had been both watery and greasy, without even the slightest hint of herbs to lift it or cover the taste of the tainted meat. Only a few pitiful scraps of unidentifiable vegetables and some chunks of gristle made it into her bowl along with the thin gravy, and she had been given a single chunk of stale bread to mop up the juices in place of a spoon. Her mother would have been horrified to serve up something so revolting and Molly knew that she herself could easily have done better even with the limited range of ingredients on offer. Slightly rancid mutton fat coated her tongue and, hungry though she still was, she could not bear the thought of asking for seconds. She was grateful to be able to rinse away the taste with a mug of strong and heavily sweetened black tea.

Once they had finished, she was set to washing the dishes in a bowl in the scullery. It was a relief to escape the unpleasant atmosphere in the parlour where the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece and whistle of Archie's breath as it passed through the gap where his front teeth should have been. She was also sure that she could hear the scrabbling of mice or rats in the walls. She took the opportunity to wash off some of the forge dirt but was too depressed make more than a token effort.

Dusk was falling quickly now. Knowing that she would need to rise early the next day, Molly excused herself and made her weary way up to her cot. The thought of lying between the rough, damp sheets was unappealing, but it seemed like a blessing from god in comparison to the notion of sitting in the parlour listening to Archie stumbling his way through a selection of psalms.

* * *

Settling a jam jar lid with a guttering candle stub fixed to it on the chest next to her bed she took the picture of her parents down from the shelf and peered at it intently, seeking a hint of all she had learnt in their faces. But she could see no trace of any of it. They were posed formally with stoic, solemn expressions. Only her mother's slender hand curling tightly around her husband's arm spoke to the love they had shared; the love that they had extended to Molly from the moment she was born until her father had returned broken from the war. It was all she could do not to cry. She missed them both terribly.

If only they had been honest with her about their history, she might have been saved from this dreadful place. Then she recalled Young Joe's bovine features and felt a flash of what felt very much like relief. This place might currently be hell on earth but she had her youth, her health, and her virginity. As long as she remained in possession of all three then there was a chance that she could make a better life for herself. There were plainly prosperous people in Tipton. Not in in this part of town admittedly but they existed. Since the Pritchetts refused to acknowledge her as one of them she could perhaps escape being permanently tainted by their association. If her mother had found the courage to escape then she surely could too.

Downcast but with fresh resolve, Molly put the photograph back in its place and made herself as comfortable as possible in the sagging cot, wriggling and sighing as she tried to ease the muscles she had overworked at the forge that day. She knew that the morning would come all too soon and she was determined to take what rest she could in order to keep her spirits up.

* * *

Despite her best intentions, she slept badly. Her empty stomach growled repeatedly and her aching limbs refused to relax. Each time she turned she seemed to discover a new lump in the thin mattress; she was sure that there were creatures in there with her. Matters had not been helped when Prue and Archie made their way to bed. Molly lay rigid in the darkness dreading the thought that she would again have to listen whilst her Uncle forced himself on his wife. In the event they had both gone straight to sleep but whilst this saved her from the sounds of their intercourse it meant that she was treated to a prolonged and outrageous duet of snores.

The night had felt endless as the minutes crept by but when she was finally roused from her troubled slumber the next morning Molly knew that it had been far too short. Shaking with fatigue she made her way downstairs; it was going to be a very hard day.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Despite all Molly's plans and her iron resolve it did not take long for her new situation to grind her down; particularly when the cold dark days of winter began to bite. Every day except Sunday followed the same soul-destroying routine. She would rise at cockcrow, wash along with the others in a bucket of water which had been left next to the banked fire all night to warm through, then pull on a leather apron over her shift, slip on her hobnail boots, and go out to black hole of a nail shop to light a fire in the forge. Some mornings she felt mazed as a sheep when she entered the all-encompassing darkness of the lean-to with it's overwhelming stink of sweat, cheap coal, and worked metal – yet by dusk she could scarcely mark the odour nor care less about the gloom.

When the fire was burning steadily and the coals had a good even glow about them, she would return to the cottage, stomach growling, ready to partake of whatever was being passed off as breakfast that day. It was never very much – usually just some bread and dripping sprinkled with salt, or some egg mess if the hens had decided to lay. It was barely sufficient to keep body and soul together but it was always accompanied by a large mug of blissfully hot and sweet black tea which gave them all the strength to keep working.

The hollow feeling in her belly made her long for her old life where every morning she had feasted complacently on fresh bread baked in the village's communal oven, smeared with butter and honey, or on a large bowl of porridge drowned in thick yellow cream and dotted with blobs of her mother's homemade jam. Instead she was permanently hungry now. Emptiness gnawed at her from dawn 'til dusk – and kept her awake at night. She had also developed a chronic cough, caused no doubt by the cheap small coal they burnt in the nail shop and the answering dampness in the cottage. No wonder the flesh was melting off her bones and the curl had all but gone from her hair.

Despite it all, unlike the stunted people whom she saw every day in the street or at church, her limbs had grown straight and true, her skin was fair, and her eyes still clear. It wouldn't be long before she had the grey, pinch face, and despair-dulled eyes of her neighbours, but for now she still stood out amongst them like an Arab mare in a field full of pit ponies.

Once they had broken their fast most of the menfolk thereabouts would leave to tramp over to Hingley and Sons up Netherton way or other similar factories, where they would toil until dusk making heavy chains. In her turn, Molly would head back out to the forge where she would be joined by Prue, an older female cousin, and the cousin's little boy who, at six, was old enough to work the bellows. When her baby was a few weeks old, Aunt Annie, her Uncle Edward's much younger second wife, had also come back to work in the forge.

In keeping with local practice, the baby was usually hung in a basket from a hook embedded in the ceiling, a little way from the heat of the fire, where the child could be fed and changed with a minimum of interruption to the daily work. Every time the child cried Prue would grimace and say that it should be tipped into the pig pen just like they had done with the unwanted brats of nailer women in times past. But despite her apparent hatred, Molly was sure that Prue's childlessness was the cause of her cruelty rather than an actual loathing of infants. At times Molly saw her allowing the child to suck on one of her knuckles when its mother was not there to feed it or chucking it under the chin to make it smile. Molly was wise enough never to let on about what she had seen.

This was, generally speaking, a profitable time for the family as so many of them were working. However, occasionally, when they were down on their quota, or Archie had drunk them down to their last penny, her grandmother would join them in the nail shop. Molly was in total awe of the woman. She had to be in her late sixties at least. Shrivelled by hunger, worn to the bone with child rearing, and shattered by hard work, and yet despite everything that she had been through she could still put in a twelve-hour shift at the forge when it was needed.

With her economy of movement and her deft, precise hammer strokes, the old woman made forming nails at speed look easy. Molly watched her from the corner of her eye whenever they shared a fire and tried to mimic the rhythm of her blows. It was far harder than it seemed even for a girl raised in a smithy and used to working in metal. That said, Molly's talents had always tended more towards working with horses and she had never shown the aptitude or interest in some of the decorative work that her father had so loved. The few happy conversations that she recalled having with her father since the war tended to revolve around the beasts that were brought to them for shoeing.

The single bright spot on the horizon, from Molly's point of view, was the freedom she was allowed on Sunday afternoons. Once church was finished, Archie would disappear to the pub, Prue would go home to torture their dinner to death, and Granny Pritchett would pass a happy hour or two holding court with her friends in the street outside the church. For a little while Molly was therefore allowed the freedom to please herself. She took to wandering down by the cut, imagining the times that her parents had met there, the occasions when they had shared their love, made their plans. Not one to waste her time she also foraged as much as she could as she passed by – vegetation, fruit, whatever was available, taking in back to the house to add to their pitiful dinners.

In winter, the towpath was particularly desolate. Molly was not usually interrupted there as she slowly made her way home. One particularly miserable December morning she found herself taking shelter in a derelict waystation close to Tipton. The moment she entered it to hide from the cruel wind, it was obvious that someone else was already there.

'Who is it?' She demanded boldly, trying desperately to hide any trace of concern. Eventually she heard a delicate scrabbling from inside. 'Come forward!'

For the longest time there was nothing but an intense silence, interrupted only by wind howling along the cut. Then a meek face appeared out of the darkness. It was the red headed girl that Molly had first seen in church. With a relived grin Molly held out her hand and helped the other girl out into the light.

'I'm Molly', she said.

'Elizabeth', the red headed girl replied seriously.

They started at each other uncertainly for a while and then, once they were unable to hide their mutual good humour any further, they both smiled. Venturing out on to the tow path they began to talk.

'I'm sorry that I got you into trouble that morning in church', Elizabeth began rather nervously.

'Please don't feel any concern.' Molly replied. 'It appears that my uncle is a rather difficult character. I come here to avoid him, so I'd be happy if you never mentioned his name again whilst we're together'

She gave Elizabeth a rather wicked grin which was returned instantly. Molly held out her arm and Elizabeth slipped hers thorough it companionably. Heads together they made their way along the cut giggling and sharing confidences.

Over the next few months the two girls deepened their unlikely friendship. For both, it became a refuge from the casual cruelty that was directed at them by the families that were supposed to care for them, and both were careful to keep the true nature of their acquaintanceship secret.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 10

The longer she spent in Tipton the more her hatred of her family grew. They were cold, cruel, and brutal - so unlike her loving parents that she could hardly believe that her mother had been one of them. Even her grandmother, whom she admired in many ways, had proven to be a disappointment. Her ability, and indeed willingness, to protect her granddaughter was limited, and Molly had more than once felt the unwelcome impact of her uncle's fists in response to some imagined slight or transgression, or a sly kick from Prue when the spiteful cow thought no one was looking.

The only bright spots in Molly's life were the times when she escaped to the cut to meet up with Elizabeth. They grew closer day by day, sharing their dreams and fears, exchanging confidences. Though she might be better fed and clothed, Molly knew that Elizabeth was just as trapped and devoid of hope as she was. Having a friend to share it with made them both stronger.

For her part, Elizbeth knew that her father, one of the most important middlemen in the area, was a cruel, greedy, and corrupt man. In times past, nailers had been paid in tokens which were redeemable only in businesses approved by the fogger who issued them. It was one of the ways in which the workers were kept poor and beholden. Over the years, there had been a number of strikes and protests in the area, and the wicked 'truck' system had eventually died. However, there were still plenty of other ways for a fogger to cheat the desperate. Elizabeth told Molly that her father had two sets of weights. The ones he used to supply the nailers with iron on credit in the morning, and the ones that he used to buy back the formed nails at the end of the day. Molly snarled when she realised how much the man was making from her hard work. Elizabeth tried to sneak her friend food and money by way of recompense but this had come to an abrupt end when her father had caught and punished her.

* * *

After a few months of Prue's disgusting food, Molly had volunteered to buy and cook the family's supper. Although she had originally used it as an excuse to escape her unpleasant kin and meet with Elizabeth, she had also managed to improve the edibility of their food to a significant degree. Soups and stews were now redolent with the herbs she gathered from the nearby fields and hedgerows, and the nuts, berries, and tubers she collected on her travels filled their bellies. The family's health improved and their teeth no longer rattled in their heads for lack of nutrients. But whilst this improved her family's general disposition towards her in private, she was still never acknowledged as anything more than a hired girl in public.

* * *

On the anniversary of her father's death, Molly retired to her bed early. Unable to mourn her father openly, she had been heart-sick all day and wanted only to forget her desperate loss in the blissful blankness of sleep. Pulling back the coverlet to slip wearily between the sheets, she found a bundle of letters tied up with a frayed ribbon resting on her pillow. Blinking in surprise, she picked them up and held them close to the spluttering light of the candle stub to see what they were. From the moment she read the greeting on the first page she was too intrigued to want to sleep. The letter was from her mother thought written in Father Grey's fluid hand. Heart swelling in gratitude, she realised that her grandmother had found a quiet way to help her feel closer to her parents.

"My dearest Mother,

I feel that I must write to you again although there is not so much news to tell you. My man, my darling Joe, has now left for the front, as have so many others. Father Grey will be joining him soon, so this may be the last opportunity I have to contact you for some time.

I was so relieved to get this latest letter from you. I wonder how you are getting on now. Your news about my father's death was a great joy to me, although I feel shame in admitting that in the presence of Father Grey, and I trust that, in his Christian goodness, he will convey my honest response to you in this regard rather than hide the truth behind polite lies. I pray now only that you have found some relief in his passing, and that you will find true peace in what comes now.

Our daughter Molly (or 'Mahlie', as Joe has always said) comes on well. She grows tall and strong, and I see much of you and I in her. She has our stubbornness, and some of our skills with the hammer, but she has also her father's good nature with beasts. You will be pleased to know that she need not work and her only time at the forge has been spent learning what her father has to teach her. She knows her letters too and can keep proper accounts. If no better life can be found for her, then she will do well as the wife of a farrier or blacksmith – although I do not think Joe's current apprentice will ever be a suitable match for her, and nor will any other ordinary village lad. The fire in her is too great, and the restlessness also, even as it was in me. And so my fears for her grow daily. Finally, I have come to understand the grief that I caused you, and I heartily repent of it, although I cannot regret the love that Joe and I share.

I hold you in my heart, Mother, and I will prey for your health daily, as I hope that you will ever do for me and mine.

Your daughter, Maggie"

Molly felt her eyes burn with unshed tears. Her mother's voice came through so strongly it was as if she was in the little alcove, reading her own words aloud. Sniffing, Molly selected another letter at random. It was dated after the war. The tone was a lot less conciliatory but still effecting in its honesty. It read:

"Mother,

My man has been returned to me, thanks be to God. He is changed, as so many have been, but he still shows me more consideration than ever I knew in all my years in Tipton. I continue to pray that he will eventually find his peace here with Molly and me. In the mean time we cherish each and every smile, no matter how brief, and look to find ways to ease his anguish.

Despite it all, I have no regrets. I hope and trust that…"

Molly wanted to read more but by this point the scrap of candle had guttered almost to invisibility. With a sigh, she refolded the letters carefully, wrapped them in a clean handkerchief, and slipped them into the small hiding place she had discovered under her bed. By the time her aunt and uncle had decided to turn in for the night there was no trace in the attic room that Molly had done anything other than headed straight for her cot.

Later, in the dark, she had been obliged to listen whilst her uncle enticed her aunt to rut with him. Prue had given every indication of being happy to take part but Molly could not supress the feeling that she had acquiesced in order to save herself from a beating. Listening to her uncle's porcine grunting, she realised how lucky her mother had been to find a good man like her father. She wondered if she would ever find the same for herself. If she did, she promised herself that she would do whatever it took to keep hold of it.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter. I promise that there will be a Shelby showing up very soon!


	12. Chapter 12

I re-read this chapter and it seemed really clunky so I've rewritten it a bit. If you have time, let me know what you think.

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

Over the next few months, Molly's life in Tipton reached a sort of equilibrium. The work was hard, and the rewards were barely enough to keep body and soul together, but at least she had come to learn more of her parents through her mother's letters, which gave her some comfort. Her friendship with Elizabeth had also added an extra, comforting dimension to her life and went some way to mitigating the coldness and cruelty she experienced at home with her family.

Elizabeth was the best and dearest friend that Molly had ever had - far closer than anyone she had back in West Country. It was only as time went on Molly realised why. Although she hadn't realised it at the time, she had been in privileged position in the village, and much of what she had considered her due in terms of popularity and respect had, in fact, derived from the fact that her father had been an such an important man in the area. She grew to see that, as Elizabeth was to her, so she had been to the other young people in the village – a source of potential power and relief from hunger. She had been distraught when she realised this; frightened that Elizabeth would think that she had been using her. But Elizabeth swore to her that she hadn't thought anything of the kind and that they were true and honest friends. Molly hoped that was not a lie and tried her best not to rely on Elizabeth for anything other than company - although when hunger bit it was not always easy. Perhaps fortunately, Elizabeth's father had long ago prevented her from passing on gifts of food and money, so their friendship remained and was strengthened.

This relative peace could not last, however. In the late summer, scarlet fever hit the fetid slums of Tipton. It spread like wildfire, affecting the young, the old, the sickly, and the hungry. It started with a slight fever and a sore throat, then a rash developed, followed by stomach pains and vomiting. The wealthier patients were taken to a clinic where they were given an antitoxin but the poor were left to sweat and rot and die in their hovels.

Things were no different for the Pritchetts. Although perhaps in some ways they were worse, for unlike other families, the Pritchetts had few true friends to rely on. Other than Molly and her grandmother, they all fell ill. The old woman was entirely taken up with ministering to the sick ones so to stave off starvation, Molly had been obliged to work all the hours god sent at the forge in order to bring in sufficient funds to feed them all. With so many of the men of Tipton sick, Molly was lucky to have been able to pick up better paid work making medium chain using a borrowed oliver*. But no matter how quickly she worked it was never quite enough

After dark, Molly trawled the hedgerows and fields - even neighbouring gardens - harvesting anything that could help fill their bellies but she could not do it all. Gradually the youngest and weakest began to fade away. Her cousin's babby was the first to be taken, its mother followed soon after. After that Prue turned her face to the wall and refused to take anything more than the occasional sip of heavily sweetened tea; it was as if she was willing herself to die. When her grandmother finally succumbed to the sickness too, Molly went beyond despair. She waited only to take sick and die herself. But in the meantime, she worked around the clock to earn what money she could in order to feed those who was left.

* * *

Finn wasn't sure where he was going but it didn't really matter - half the houses in the area had back yard forges. Although the area seemed curiously quiet at the moment, someone was bound to be able to supply him with some nails suitable for re-fixing a horseshoe. So he simply followed the sound of clanging hammers until he found a likely place. He'd been exercising a mare that Tommy was keen on buying when her shoe had come lose. Now he just wanted to get it fixed before he had to make the trek back to the Lee campsite in a meadow down by the cut.

The place he reached first had the air of a coal hole but he could see the light of a fire inside and, more to the point, he could he hear the recurring clanging of someone working in metal. Removing his trademark cap, with its wickedly reinforced brim, he bowed his head briefly to enter the grim looking building. He'd been prepared to ask the smith there for what he needed but in the end what he saw robbed him of his voice.

The woman within was lost in the rhythm of her work and didn't so much as notice his presence. Stripped half naked in the heat, and with the length of her shift kilted up around her hips, she was a disturbing vision of powerful womanhood, surrounded by the fierce glow of the forge.

She was not like the girls Finn usually came across. She was not one of the society beauties that sniffed around him when they learnt who his brothers were. She was not pretty enough or delicate enough for that for which he was eternally grateful – neither of those characteristics interested him. Nor was she like one of the giggling Romani girls whom he met on the road, with their slinking hips and enticing side-long glances. He knew from his sister-in-law Esme's stories how protected Romani women were and so he'd never been tempted to approach any of them, no matter how blatant the invitation. But though this girl was a Gorger he knew instinctively that approaching her would come with its own dangers. His only other experiences with women came from the whores that had always hung around the Peaky Blinders and, whatever he might have previously thought about the kind of young woman he might find half naked in a Tipton nail shop, he was sure that he would never contemplate using that word now he was face to face with one of them. Particularly seeing how well she could wield a hammer!

All in all, Finn was entirely unprepared to deal with the vision which confronted him. This particular vision had limbs which were rounded and straight, the product of a good diet from a young age. The face was hollow-cheeked and not pretty; instead it was fierce and proud. In the gloom of the shed, the forge light surrounded her like a halo. She looked like a picture he'd once seen of the ancient Irish goddess Brigid. He was so intent on watching her that he didn't even see the pile of iron rods on the floor. He tripped and almost went flying. The eloquence of his swearing woke Molly from her reverie.

Molly started in surprise and turned to face the intruder. Anywhere else and she would have been embarrassed by her half naked state, but this was her place and she felt strong and in control. Despite her exhaustion she stood slightly taller and faced him boldly. He was young, perhaps slightly older than her, and with such an open and honest face that it was hard not warm to him instantly. Beyond that he looked totally different to any lad she'd ever seen before and, if nothing else, it was hard to be discomfited when faced with someone with such a stupid haircut!

They stared at each other in mutual confusion… and then, recognising the ridiculousness of their reactions, they couldn't help but smile at one another.

* * *

So she finally meets a Shelby - I hope this isn't too much of a disappointment!

* An oliver was simple treadle hammer which was used to help shape the links when making a length of chain. To see one being used enter zRPos5uyy0A into a YouTube search.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

'What can I do for you, my lover?' the terrifying goddess said, but the Irish brogue he had somehow been expecting was absent. In its place was a lazy Devon drawl. Her hammer was swinging loosely by her side now, and her face held a soft smile, but he saw the tension in her shoulders and, although she was thin, he could not miss the well-developed muscles in her arms as she shifted gently on the spot. He was suddenly sure that if she felt moved to it, it would have taken but the work of a minute for her to spread his brains out across the floor. He shivered internally. The thickness of her unfamiliar accent made it sound almost like she was speaking a foreign language and it added to his sense of being out of place. Finn suddenly felt very young and very, very unsure.

'I… um… well, my horse… I need… I mean the shoe needs... um.' He stammered to a halt. The girl, the woman really, was looking at him levelly, totally unimpressed, totally composed. He could feel the blush starting in his cheeks and rising all the way up to his hairline.

'Your horse has lost a shoe?' She asked slowly, as if talking to a particularly stupid child. 'And you need some help?' Shrugging impatiently, she added, 'Well bring 'e here then and if you have the shoe, I'll re-set 'e for you.'

For a moment Finn was frozen with indecision. There was no doubt in his mind that this woman had been raised a long way from the nail shops of Tipton. He wasn't sure what that meant in terms of her ability with shoeing horses. However, believing that discretion was the better part of valour, he eventually managed to say, 'Some n-n-n-nails will be enough. It will be enough to get her home.'

'I'll not let any beast go poorly shod if I can do summat better', the vision responded, a stubborn glint in her eye. 'Now as I told you go and bring 'e here.'

Christ, Finn thought as he wilted helplessly under her piercing gaze, it's like trying to face down Aunt Pol. Realising that arguing was hopeless, he nodded and went outside to fetch the mare. The difference between the stinking forge and the fresh air was almost enough to make his head spin. He took a few deep breaths to ground himself before walking over to untie his mare.

The young woman followed him out into the sunshine. He saw her blinking rapidly against the glare, she clearly hadn't been outside for many hours. In the bright light her face was hollow-cheeked and haggard, and her shift was torn in places, and badly stained with sweat and coal dust. He felt a flash of guilt as he had done when he'd been forced to lie with the whore his brother had organised for him. This girl was plainly starving and exhausted. He wanted to give her all his money and leave her to rest - but just like with the whore he could hear his brother's cold, cutting voice saying, 'Everybody's tired, Finn.' Ashamed he clamped down on his feelings.

'This is Aine', he said almost shyly as he brought his mount towards her.

Molly cast a practiced eye over the young mare. This was definitely not a work horse, nor even one for hunting. 'She's a fine beast – meant to run. Have you sent her out on the gallops yet?'

'She's not mine, but my brother is looking to buy her for racing. She's a bit young yet', Finn scratched at his mare's withers lovingly. 'At least that's what Curly would say. That's my brother's groom. He hates sending them for racing and he'll not send them until he's good and ready no matter what Tommy says.' Embarrassed, he stopped. He felt like a fool for rattling on but she didn't seem to care, or even notice really. Instead she busied herself with introducing herself to Aine.

'And you trust him? Curley, that is.' Molly's eyes were calm, guileless as they met his. He nodded.

'Aye. He's a good man with beasts. He knows them and they trust him.'

She smiled. 'Then be led by him. There's no rush for her, beautiful, willing beast that she is.' Aine tossed her head impatiently as if she disagreed but she calmed rapidly when Molly rubbed noses with her. 'Now go and sit on the grass by the gate and I'll re-set the shoe.' She cast her eye over the fine tweed of the young man's suit and the shine on his well-made shoes, they fitted well – there was no doubt that they had been made for him and not another. 'You can pay me after.'

Molly worked as fast as she could. Given the quality of the horse and the cut of the lad's clothing she knew she was dealing with wealth, wealth she was desperately in need of. But she still took a great deal of care – she would never give lest than her best for any animal under her care. Before she replaced the shoe, she took the opportunity to trim and slightly reshape the hoof. She might be hollow-bellied and light-headed but it was a joy to her to have the opportunity to work on a horse once again, so she smiled as she worked.

Despite his uncertainty, Finn was experienced enough to recognised good shoeing when he saw it. He took the mare's hoof firmly against his thigh and studied it in detail. He couldn't fault what Molly had done – particularly given the short time span she had been allotted and the primitive conditions in which she had been working. She hadn't even had a proper anvil at her disposal.

'That should see you home', Molly said with casual confidence. 'The rest of her shoes will need doing in the next fortnight or so. One of them is starting to twist a bit and the hooves could all do with a trim.'

Michael shook off his lingering confusion and assumed an air of superiority. Handing over a knotted handkerchief full of coins, he said 'This is well done. I'll relay this to my friends in the area. We may have more shoeing work for you. Can I call again?' He felt ridiculously hopeful that she would say yes.

Molly felt the press of the bundle of coins against her thigh. It had a pleasing heft. 'I can't promise to be free if you drop by without notice but I'd be happy to take the extra work provided you don't mind a bit of a wait - and you can pay in cash.' She was lying of course. Without being so coarse as to count the coins he'd given her she couldn't be sure, but she thought that he'd paid well over the odds for the work she'd done. Since she desperately needed all the coin she could come by, she would happily drop anything to work for him again on those terms. It wasn't as if she could hope to make money like that in any other honest way. That said, she was too proud to let him see how desperate she was.

Finn nodded awkwardly and touched the brim of his cap in farewell; Molly saw a brief, inexplicable, flash of silver before he turned away. She watched him lead his mare away with mixed emotions. He seemed innocent and sweet and thoughtful. She wanted to run after him and beg him to take her away from this hell hole.

She turned back to her work with sullen despair. Perhaps if he came back.

* * *

For anyone that doubts it, 'My lover' is a genuine West Country greeting used by and for both men and women. Another one is 'My handsome'. Try saying it whilst pretending to be a pirate - that's about as close as you can come. Or, for the authentic sound, try searching the web for any recording of Tony Beard; "The Wag from Widecombe", although you may well need subtitles!


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

When she stopped at noon to force down some stale bread and tea, Molly took the time to check the fee the young lad had left her. As she looked at it, she felt her stomach turn over. He'd given her nearly two weeks wages. She felt slightly guilty that he had left her so much more than the work had been worth but she reasoned that he must have been well able to afford it – he had barely blinked as he handed it over. On the other hand, she herself was desperately in need of every penny. Sinking to the ground, she rapidly ran through the list of debts the family had with tradesmen in the area and worked out how much would be left over for supplies. Tears of gratitude and relief spilled down her cheeks as she realised that she would be able to clear the worst of what they owed and still have spare coin left for at least three days' worth of decent food. She might even have enough for something from the chemist's too.

For a while she sat dazed on the grass by the gate, feeling the sun warming her bones and restoring life to her aching body. She knew that she couldn't go back to work with this money burning a hole in her pocket so she put on her Sunday best and headed off to the town centre to settle their debts and pick up some provisions.

Sickness had cast a pall over the whole town leaving the streets eerily deserted. Many foundries and factories were running at half strength, some were even entirely silent, and there were few people on the streets. Even the ever-present ragged children were largely absent, a symptom of the fact that scarlet fever usually targeted the young most aggressively. More than ever, Tipton felt like an alien world to her and she was gripped by a fierce desire to run as hard and as fast as she could back to her old life. However, her responsibilities remained.

Most of the shops were open still. Their owners were better fed than most and lived in more sanitary conditions so they had largely escaped the worst of the epidemic. The baker was the sole exception. He and his wife had lost their new born daughter and the shop was staffed by his apprentice and a young maid whilst the family grieved. Of Elizabeth, and her family, Molly saw and heard nothing.

Going from business to business she paid up as much as she could so that the Pritchetts were once again able to get the supplies they needed. Since half the town was confined to its bed, most of the shopkeepers were pathetically grateful to see her and have at least one bad debt paid down. And seeing that she was reasonably healthy they were also keen to keep her that way and so did not demure when she asked for a little more credit.

Returning home some time later with an empty purse but laden down with food and some powders from the chemist's, she found she was wearing a smile broad enough to crack her jaws. It was an unfamiliar feeling and she was afraid that it looked more like a grimace than a sign of joy but nevertheless she could not hide it. If she could just get one of the others back on their feet then they might have a fighting chance and even fatigue could not take the edge off her optimism.

Breathing shallowly through her mouth to avoid being overwhelmed by the unhealthy odour inside, she made her way into the cottage. 30 minutes later, a rich, meaty stew bubbled over the hearth fire. Suet dumplings spiked with herbs waited, covered by a damp cloth, on the table ready to be added to the pot half an hour before it was served. Her stomach growled and she felt acid burning its way up into her throat. Only sheer willpower stopped her from guzzling down the half raw food.

Unable to avoid it any longer, she made her way up the stairs to where Granny, and her aunt and uncle lay ill, carrying a pitcher of cooled sweetened tea into which she had dissolved one of the chemist's powders. If the stink on the ground floor had been difficult to deal with it was nothing compared to the foetid atmosphere in the unventilated attic bedroom where three people were sweating, groaning, and vomiting. Her stomach churned uneasily and her hunger vanished in an instant.

She went to the old woman first. Granny was shivering like a whipped dog and her bedding was sodden-through with sweat. Molly propped her up and fed her a portion of the cool tea. The woman's swollen throat and tongue made it hard for her to swallow but although she gagged, she managed to get some of it down and keep it there. Her breath came slightly easier after that. Taking a rag from a bucked near the stairs she wiped the old woman's face with cool water.

'Thank you, child,' Granny said hoarsely. 'More tea?'

Molly did as she was asked. 'I have food too - I'll bring you some good gravy and mashed veg once it's done. You must eat what you can.'

Leaving the woman to rest, she tended to her aunt and uncle. Although she hated her life with them, their coldness and their casual cruelty, she knew that things would be much harder if they were not there to help bring in money. After they were cleaner and had taken some tea, she emptied the overflowing chamber pots and buckets before scrubbing herself liberally with carbolic soap.

Unwilling to waste a moment, she was soon back at work. Pausing occasionally to tend to the hearth fire or the food she continued to make chains until dusk by which time the stew as ready. She banked the forge fire and made her way back inside, rubbing her aching back and groaning with exhaustion. For once, the stink of sickness was blissfully overpowered by the smell of good food.

She dished up three small bowls of gravy and vegetables. Knowing that her three patients would be unable to manage anything substantial she mashed the vegetables into a pulp then took the bowls upstairs and fed them all slowly a few mouthfuls at a time. Prue resisted a little at first, but eventually the smell of the food was too good to resist and she began to eat.

They all seemed to rest a little easier after they had eaten and Molly went wearily downstairs and ate her own supper. She restrained herself to a single bowlful. It was richer than anything she had eaten in weeks and she didn't want to waste it by throwing it up. Filling a tankard with stew she slipped out to make the short trip to her widowed uncle's place.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

On the third day, the lad came back. Riding bareback on the same handsome bay mare as his last visit, he was followed by two solidly built skewbald cobs on leading reins made of elderly leather. Their feathered heels were dirty and tangled from their passage through the streets, but they were otherwise well kept. Frequent exercise and good fresh food from the meadows and hedgerows they grazed as they travelled kept them healthier than most of the drays kept by tradesman in the town.

This time he was not so finely dressed. Although they were still well-made from decent Donegal tweed, his trousers and jacket were heavily patched and darned; far more suitable for the filthy back roads of Tipton than the ones he had worn on his previous visit. As he dismounted, she saw him pull awkwardly at the cuffs of his jacket where they had ridden up as if the sleeves had been cut for a much shorter man.

Molly watched as he loosely hitched the three animals to the broken-down fence, realizing that he was trusting more to the horses' placid natures than the strength of the rotting wood. Then, pulling his cap gingerly from his head, he made his way to greet her. Leaning against the outer wall of the forge, she watched him walk up the path and struggled to stop a ridiculous grin from breaking through her outwardly calm demeanor. He'd come back! Unwilling to let her muscles cool down too much, she stood swinging her hammer slightly. Then, realizing it might seem a little aggressive she stopped abruptly.

When their eyes met, he flushed. He'd been confident and self-assured when he'd set off from camp but, seeing her now he could feel his face beginning to burn. The night he'd rode back to the Lee camp after she'd shoed his mare he'd struggled to sleep for thinking about her. When he'd finally drifted off, he'd been assailed by visions of her naked body, long limbs stretched out before him, spring flowers wreathed in her hair. She had been waiting for him, calling to him, pleading with him to join her on the bed of meadow grass. He'd woken early, painfully aroused, and had been forced to disappear in to the copse of trees near the camp to relieve himself. Johnny Dogs had smirked at him when he returned to camp. He felt deeply ashamed, as if he had dishonored her somehow. Talking to her now was beyond awkward.

'I've brought two horses to be re-shoed', he said rather redundantly, scuffing one of his shoes on the gravel and running a finger around the neck of his shirt where the collar was starting to chaff.

'Well, yes - I can see', she said, her tone mildly sarcastic, but her eyes didn't leave his face even for a moment. It was a sweet face, she thought, honest, kind, innocent. It frightened her somehow, though she couldn't say why. 'Luckily for you I have the time for them today', she added gruffly.

Feeling like an idiot he said, 'That's good. I'll wait.' He clicked over at one of the cobs. It raised its head inquisitively then, seeing that it was wanted, un-looped its leading rein from the fence with a toss of its head then made its way into the garden to join them.

Despite herself Molly was impressed and delighted. A smile finally spread across her face and she joined the lad in making much of the clever pony. They both started awkwardly as their hands brushed against each other.

'I'm Finn by the way.' He focused intently on his feet.

'Molly', she replied, blushing prettily. For some reason she was finding it hard to look away. What was wrong with her! But before she could bring herself under control the cob took matters into its own hooves. It nibbled at her shoulder, tasting the fabric of her shift fastidiously. With a grin she took hold of the pony's bridle and took it to the forge.

Three days of good food had worked its miracle over the Pritchett household. Although Prue and Archie were still in bed they would be up by the end of the week. Granny, who was made of sterner stuff, had managed to get downstairs that morning by leaning heavily on her granddaughter. Having washed thoroughly and changed in to her only other set of clothes, she was now sat by the fire in her old armchair, resting and periodically stirring the soup which was simmering there. She was somewhat surprised when her granddaughter hurtled through the door.

'We have a guest, Granny', Molly said, jiggling awkwardly from foot to foot. 'The lad with the horse for shoeing is back again with two more. I've done one but he's hungry. Can we spare some of the soup for him whilst I finish the other?' There was a hectic glint in her eyes and a faint blush on her cheeks which couldn't come entirely from the heat of the forge.

Granny was not a stupid woman. She could see that her granddaughter was thinking about more than shoeing or soup, but she also knew that they were out of money again.

'If he can pay then we can spare a bowl or two.'

Molly pulled a double handful of coins from the pocket of her apron and spilled them out on to the table. 'Oh, he can pay.'

The old woman goggled at the array of copper and silver laid out before her, then scraped it hastily into the relative safety of an old jam jar. Without turning around, she nodded slightly and the tension in Molly's shoulders faded somewhat.

Taking their best bowl, Molly dished up a generous measure of the soup, being careful to pick out the most wholesome scraps of meat and vegetables. Then she took a battered tin plate and added a few slices of boiled ham and a small chunk of bread thickly smeared with dripping. Granny watched the careful preparations silently. There was something about the care with which Molly had sliced the bread and selected the ham which she found worryingly familiar. There was not time to ask, however. As quick as a whip Molly was gone again, bearing her prizes away like they were gifts for a king.

Granny did not need to look outside to know what was taking place but still she popped her head outside the door and watched for a few minutes. Heart sinking, she settled back into her place by the fire. What was it about the Pritchett girls that made them so vulnerable to a sweet smile and a modicum of kindness?


	16. Chapter 16

Thanks to everyone for their reviews so far. Sorry for the delay in posting - I've been caught up with The Wicked Lady. I hope this chapter isn't too much of a disappointment.

* * *

Chapter 16

Elizabeth was alive and well. She had had a slight rash and a mild fever and that had been all. Molly had not been so pleased to see another person hale and hearty since her grandmother had gotten up from her sick bed. Now the two girls embraced joyfully. Drawing back Molly saw tears of relief in her friend's eyes and knew that there were answering tears in her own.

That morning in church they had seen each other for the first time since the start of the epidemic and the relief of knowing that the other was safe had been almost overwhelming. Molly had been desperate to give her only friend a hug but even under the guise of offering one another the sign of peace it would have been impossible. Elizabeth's father was far too despised in the town and the Pritchetts didn't have sufficient wealth or influence for their hired girl to go against popular opinion. But even though they hadn't exchanged as much as a nod, the two friends had turned up at the little derelict lock keeper's cottage at their usual time.

* * *

Since the weather was fine, the two girls walked arm in arm along the tow path to a little copse of goat willow trees that marked the entrance to a meadow where they often sat and ate whatever fettle they had brought with them. Sitting down in the long grass, amongst a host of jewel-like wildflowers, they laid out their treasures on an old shawl. Elizabeth had brought some elderly cheese and a couple of heels of buttered bread. For once, Molly's contribution was more generous – a jug of beef stew, some pies, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and an orange.

Elizabeth eyed the bounty dubiously. 'Where did all this come from?' She didn't want to accuse her only friend of theft but still…

With soft smile, Molly told her. 'I've been shoeing horses. Some lad has been bringing his beasts to the cottage. He's got more money than sense,'

'So, who is this lad?' Elisabeth asked wide-eyed. Then, seeing the faint blush that crept across her friend's cheeks she leaned over and shook her in mock exasperation. 'Tell me, tell me now!'

This time Molly's smile split her face in two. 'He calls himself Finn. He dresses like a lord, talks like a Brummie gutter rat, and rides like a gypsy. Honestly, I have no idea who he really is or who his family is. But…'

'But?'

'But I think he might be my way out of here.' Almost shocked by her own admission she flopped back on to the grass, staring up at the wispy white clouds that scudded through the deep blue sky overhead. Anything to avoid her friend's searching gaze.

A moment later Elizabeth joined her laying out amongst the dry grass. Giggling a little, she asked, 'Is he very handsome?'

Molly rolled on to her side and propped herself up on her elbow. 'Handsome enough, I suppose. He has freckles and a sweet, shy smile. And he's kind to me. He bought me a posy of wildflowers yesterday – although I had to throw it over the back hedge as soon as he'd gone. Could you imagine what that old cow Prue would have said if she'd seen it?' She didn't dare tell Elizabeth about the kiss. How tentatively it had started. How hotly it had ended. Her blush deepened.

'I knew you look different.' Elizabeth peered at her closely. 'The minute I saw you, I knew that something had changed. It's like you have a light inside you now.'

'I've been eating', Molly said dismissively. 'He gives me so much money. More than my father used to make.'

'Is he local or is he going to be moving on?' The Brummie accent and the affinity for horses said only one thing to Elizabeth but, for her friend's sake, she hoped she was wrong.

'He's moving on in ten days or so. The sales at Wolverhampton are over soon and so I need to bind him to me as soon as I can. Archie's throwing his weight around again. He can't bear that I've been bringing in more money than he can and it's making him spiteful. As soon as he's up to full strength I'm going to be in for it. I have to convince Finn to take me away as soon as I can.'

'So, he's definitely a gypsy then?' Elizabeth felt her heart sink. What kind of life could a traveller lad offer Molly?

'I think so', Molly acknowledged. 'But he's not like any one I've ever met on the drom before. They came through my village often enough on the way to this horse fair or that, or looking for work during harvest time, and one of them at least always called in to pay their respects at the forge. My father had the knack of their cant and some of the same words trip of my lad's tongue. But still, he seems like a different sort somehow. He's got much finer manners for a start, and some of his clothes wouldn't look out of place on a member of the gentry.' Sitting up once more she pinched up a nub of bread and cheese. 'I think I can trust him,' she said resolutely, although Elizabeth saw the uncertainty in her eyes.

'But what will you do?' She asked. 'He won't take you with him out of the kindness of his heart, not after such a short time of being acquainted of you, will he?' Molly had a sick feeling in her stomach. The desperation in Molly's eyes pointed to only one possible outcome.

'I'll do the only thing I can do.' Molly met her eye sober faced. She wanted to feel ashamed, but she was beyond the point of desperation. She couldn't stay here any longer.

'Just be careful, bab', Elizabeth said, sadly. 'He's a gypsy. He could just as well leave you here when he moves on, fallen and alone.' Her plump soft hand reached out and took Molly's in a death grip. 'If he does go and you're pregnant you know I won't be able to do anything to help. You'll be cast out. It's the Work House for sure.'

'I don't have a choice. Even the Work House would be better than this.'

The cold finality of Molly's statement threw a pall of misery over their little picnic. The two girls finished their meal in mournful silence and then took their leave. At the last, Elizabeth turned back to her friend and grasped her hands desperately. 'Please be careful', she begged. 'Make sure of him first.'

Molly nodded. 'I will. He's invited me to his camp next Sunday to see to some of the horses. I promise I'll talk to you before I make my decision.'

The two friends parted in both happiness and sorrow. Only time would tell how their next meeting would fall out.


	17. Chapter 17

Mist rises from canals,

Reveals the fields

Where dreaming horses stand

And a lone walker whistles,

Strides, knee-deep in purple willow-herb,

Past the brown bones, the rusting ribs,

The ghosts of factories.

'Black Country Aubade' Iris Rhodes

* * *

Humming with nervous tension, Molly rose early and went to 8 o'clock communion. The priest was pleased to have an addition to his congregation at what was usually a sparsely attended service but she didn't stay to exchange pleasantries afterwards as she sometimes did. The guilty secret weighing on her conscious would have sent her scurrying off even if she hadn't had somewhere else to be. Now, having done her duty, she collected some tools from the shop and headed to the tow path to walk the few miles to the meadow where Finn had told her he and the Lees were camped.

It promised to be a beautiful day. The sun was beginning to burn through the low-lying clouds, bathing the world in a golden haze. Slender tendrils of mist still swirled over the black water of the canal, its oily surface broken only by the passage of the occasional family of moorhens or bobbing white-flashed grebes. For once, the furnaces and factories of Tipton lay silent and the only sound was the chattering of the birds and the hum of insects. The scent of wild honeysuckle, thyme, and lavender filled the air reminding her of her Devon home. Only in the distance could she see the occasional decaying reminders of the area's industrial past rising jaggedly up to greet the sweet morning air.

This was the closest she had come to peace since her father's death and, with every step away from her family, she could feel herself relax. By the time she reached the turn off to the encampment the brilliant sun had warmed the lingering tiredness from her bones and she felt almost giddy with joy - even the weight of her father's tools slung over her shoulder in his old kit bag couldn't weigh her down. But the gentle ache low in her belly remained, a lingering memory of her shame.

* * *

Finn had come to see her a few days before. She hadn't been expecting him. After their kiss had turned from tentative to heated, he had all but run away from her shouting over his shoulder that he would see her at the camp on Sunday as planned. When she saw him coming up the path that Friday afternoon her heart had stopped briefly. Dressed in his best clothes and with his hair slicked down, he had looked so formal, so serious. There was no sign of the sweetly charming lad she had come to know and she was terrified that he was going to tell her that he could not court her.

She was seated on a tree stump to one side of the forge building, luxuriating in the comforting warmth of the sun and taking the time to fill her hollow belly. She had just finished spooning up the last of yesterday's liver and bacon stew and was now running a hunk of bread around the inside of the tin bowl to mop up the last of the rich gravy.

As soon as she saw him, she placed the bowl carefully down on the ground, wincing at the ache in her back as she moved; she had been working far too hard of late. Standing and stretching, she wiped her hands absentmindedly on her grimy shift and then massaged the small of her back. She didn't speak, just stared at him, in no hurry to feel the chop of the axe as it fell. He watched her seriously for a moment, twisting his cap gingerly between his fingers. Eventually he could bear the silence no longer.

'Can we speak?'

Molly looked about her quickly to see if they were being observed from the house or the street

and then beckoned him into the forge. Before the epidemic the small building would have been full of people and noise but now it was deserted. Although the Pritchetts were over the worst of it, it was impossible to claim that they were fully recovered. Only Archie was back at work, and he returned grey and shaking with fatigue at the end of every shift. Prue had tried to take up her hammer again but her strikes, once so precise, were now sloppy and weak. In the end she had realised that she was merely wasting precious metal and had gone back to join Granny snoozing in the cottage. If it wasn't for the money that she had squirrelled away from the shoeing they would have been in serious trouble but for once Molly was glad that they were alone. The moment they were out of sight Finn tossed his cap aside and took hold of one of her hands.

'I'm sorry', he said ruefully. 'I shouldn't have run away. It was just… I ached for you so badly but I didn't want to take advantage.'

He wasn't abandoning her! The relief of it made her forward in a way that she would never otherwise have dared to be. She took his free hand and placed it firmly on one of her breasts. His eyes widened in shock and for a moment she thought he'd take to his heels again. After a long pause he drew in a juddering breath and began to rub his thumb slowly over her nipple, smiling as it turned as hard as a cherry pit. Molly gasped, desire and happiness intermingled. Everything was going to be OK.

* * *

Leaving the tow path, she made her way through a small copse of willow and hawthorn. At the far side was the Lee encampment. As it appeared through the trees she came to a nervous standstill, realising that she was about to enter a different world; one in which she might not be entirely welcome. There were three brightly painted vardos in the distance alongside a few large canvas shelters, which were plainly used for sleeping out, all centred around a large open fire. In a rough corral a dozen horses, some ready for sale, others used for pulling the clan's wagons, grazed contentedly.

To one side men stood about watching as a man attempted to ride a half broken chestnut filly with four white stockings, shouting out words of advice and encouragement as he fought to stay mounted. She could tell he was a good deal more skilled than any of the farmers' sons she was used to seeing slouching around on their father's broken-down old plough horse. He was riding without a saddle but, despite the bucking and wheeling, his seat was relaxed and his hands were light on the roughly knotted hackamore. She could see him gripping the horse's sides firmly with his long legs as he shifted in response to its movements; it was beautiful to watch. With a pleasurable rush of desire, she realised that it was Finn.

Ignoring them completely, the clan's womenfolk busied themselves with their never-ending round of domestic chores, mending, weaving, preparing food. In one of the shelters a young woman was nursing a baby. Nearby, a younger girl was helping a toddler to take its first steps. Through this peaceful domestic scene, a pack of shrieking children and hopelessly overexcited dogs hurtled about, playing an intricate and mystifying game of their own devising. Their path took them through an area where clothes had been laid out on the grass to dry, drawing a volley of angry imprecations from a tired looking old woman who was stirring a cauldron over the fire. The children looked momentarily shamefaced then grinned at each other and ran off, totally unabashed, to continue their wild game away from the watchful gaze of their elders.

Molly could see the steam rising from the cook pot above the fire and caught a whiff of a delicious meaty odour on the breeze. Her empty belly rumbled hungrily and she felt slightly nauseous. She couldn't remember the last time she'd truly eaten her fill – there were too many open mouths for that. Generous though it was, even the money she had earnt from Finn went only so far in feeding the family and she hoped that there would be some to share.


	18. Chapter 18

My mother said that I never should

Play with the gypsies in the wood

Children's rhyme, anon.

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

As Molly stepped out from the woodland's edge one of the romping dogs noticed her arrival and set up a furious barking, soon joined by its fellows. Activity in the camp stopped abruptly and she found herself the subject of an intense and rather hostile scrutiny. The silence was eventually broken when the horse dislodged its rider.

'Ah Finn, lad, ye nearly had her', groaned one of the older men, his thick Irish brogue laced with exasperation as he lunged for the horse's halter. He glanced back in the Molly's direction and then smiled wickedly. 'Now get up off your arse. Your rakli's watching and you don't want her thinking you've never ridden a filly before.'

The men laughed and cat-called as they helped him up. Even from 30 feet away Molly could see the blush spreading up to his hairline. If ever she'd needed convincing that it was Finn, the blushing confirmed it. The elderly woman tending the cook-pot rolled her eyes in irritation at the men's antics and then shouted over to them in exactly the same tone of voice as she had used with the children a few moments earlier. The men's reaction was much like that of the children too - although their guilty grins were a lot more subtly expressed.

Limping, and wincing slightly, Finn made his way over to her, wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers as he did so. He stopped an arms-length away. Molly desperately wanted him to give her a kiss of welcome, or at least take hold of her hand, but he had warned her that there could be no close interaction between them whilst she was visiting with the Lees. In the Romani way, they would be closely supervised at all times during her visit to ensure that no impropriety occurred. The clan weren't to know that it was already far too late for that. By the way he flexed his hands before he forced them into his pockets, she could tell that Finn wanted to reach out to her too. Instead they exchanged shy smiles.

Introductions were made, and Molly made it through the formal welcome with a minimum of errors thanks to Finn's prior coaching. Once they were completed the atmosphere noticeably relaxed. Finn disappeared with the younger men, ducking his head in embarrassment as they chafed at him, and Molly was swept up by a gaggle of women around her own age to gossip and pet the youngsters until the meal was ready. As with any gathering of young women, the talk soon turned to the relative charms of the young men they knew. Kizzy, the clan leader's youngest niece, was due to be married at the next Appleby Fair. She had been promised at the last gathering and was eager to be wed – although she was nervous about going off to join her new husband's kin. Her romantic musings on life with her husband-to-be caused much sighing and swooning amongst the other unmarried girls; biting her lip with nerves, Molly kept her own counsel.

Finn was also the subject of much debate. The girls thought him handsome but he was generally considered to be the softest and least confident of the Shelby brothers. The girls told her in hushed tones about the time that his three older brothers had come to speak to Johnny Dogs about a horse they wanted to buy. Insults had been exchanged and the Shelby boys had come out with fists and razor blades flying. Half the men in the clan still had scars from that day. There had nearly been an all-out war but it had been resolved by a wedding. The girls all agreed that this was the height of romance and they giggled as they described the first meeting of John Shelby and Esme Lee.

Amongst the young girls of the clan, Esme was both a cautionary tale and an object of fascination and awe. She had been a real firebrand who had fought against every stricture and tradition of their people. Her reputation had grown so bad that no Romany man would take her – a Shelby half-breed on the other hand, well that was another matter... And so, a war had been avoided, and the Lees had taken a step up in the criminal underworld of Birmingham. Until she had become a widow, that was. Now she followed the drom with her children and John's kids from his first wife. No one was sure exactly where she was now but stories about her came back occasionally through kith and kin. She was changed now apparently, sober, calm, and proud, and her name was spoken with respect wherever two clans met.

Eventually the meal was ready. The rabbit stew was served up in rough pottery bowls and Molly dug in to it eagerly, ecstatic to find that it tasted even better that it smelt. Conversation died whilst they all ate their fill. Eventually she mopped up the last remnants with a wodge of griddle bread and sighed happily. She felt sated, sleepy. Through half closed eyes she watched Finn across the campfire. He looked so young and carefree as he laughed and joked with the other lads. She thought of the rather frightening story the girls had told her about the vicious Shelby brothers. It didn't seem to fit with Finn at all.

After lunch she was taken to view the horses and review the state of their hooves. Most were fine as she had seen them over the preceding two weeks but one had a loose shoe and another was running slightly lame and needed the hoof on its off-foreleg rebalancing. It was relatively easy work and Molly was pleased to do it. If the Lee men were surprised to find a young woman so competent, they were well-mannered enough to hide it. Perhaps it was the fact that they trusted Finn. Perhaps they appreciated that a Gorger was prepared to deal with them honestly. Perhaps it was simply because they were used to being ruled by a woman. Whatever the reason they were polite and welcoming, and she was decently recompensed for her trouble in both coin and supplies of food.

The gathering broke up in mid-afternoon. Finn, along with one of the married Lee brothers and his wife, walked Molly back along the tow path to Granny Pritchett's cottage. Finn carried Molly's bag of tools whilst she was laden down by a basket generously filled with hunks of wild rabbit and freshly harvested summer greens; she would have no problem convincing the family that she had been foraging for food for most of the day.

As they walked, the Lee couple dropped back a little giving Molly and Finn a measure of privacy. Molly was happier than she could remember being in years. She had a full belly, coin in her pocket, and a handsome young man by her side who was giving her sweet compliments and hot glances. However, as they neared the turning to Tipton real life began to assert itself and she felt the glow of contentment slowly bleed away.

'I have to leave you here', Finn said finally, slipping the heavy pack off of his shoulders and on to the dusty path. He regarded her miserably for a moment. Then, ignoring the scowls of their chaperones, he threaded his fingers through Molly's dark curls and drew her in for a kiss. 'I'll come and see you again as soon as I can get away. I promise.'

Molly nodded dumbly in response, frightened that she would make a fool of herself by begging him to take her with him. She watched silently as the three figures disappeared in the direction of the encampment; they did not look back. Despite the heat of the day, she shivered. She had seldom felt so alone. Please god she had done enough to keep him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Elizabeth's face was an almost text book representation of shock. Her eyes were bursting out of their sockets and her mouth had formed a perfect O. If it wasn't for her evident concern Molly would have found it comical.

The two girls were hiding from the oppressive early-evening heat under the thick, silvery-green canopy of a weeping willow which was growing alongside the Tipton canal. Their excuses would not hold good for long but with the men of their families both having a Friday night drink with their respective cronies they could snatch a little time for themselves. They'd pinned back a few of the longer branches to allow the breeze from the canal to percolate their den and were now relaxing with a picnic. The quart of rather sour ale that Elizabeth had brought with her had encouraged Molly to confess that she was no longer a maid, and her tipsy reasoning had left her friend cursing and reeling.

Elizabeth's extreme reaction had shaken Molly, made her self-conscious and more than a little uncertain. She had tried to explain but somehow it hadn't helped. Now she sat in the shade of the tree with her knees pulled up tight against her chest and her arms wrapped around them protectively. Part of the problem was that she had promised her friend that she would wait before being intimate with Finn. However, when it came to it, she had been desperate in a way that her friend would never understand. Elizabeth's reaction had made that clear.

Her memories from that first afternoon with Finn were at once intense and confused. When he'd surprised her at the cottage that Friday afternoon, she'd wanted to be resolute but her relief at seeing him had completely wrong-footed her and made her more receptive than she might otherwise have been. Eager to hide from prying eyes he had pulled her into the seclusion of the nail shop and the semi-darkness had seemed to give him an extra measure of confidence.

'Do you know', he'd said softly. 'The first time I saw you here working at that forge, glowing in the firelight, I thought that you were the goddess Brigid herself.' Pulling her against him, he'd tipped back her head slightly so that he could look at her more closely. 'I see you now, with your eyes burning and your hair wreathed in flames, and I know for sure that its true.'

She'd wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he was being but then he'd kissed her. Her body had burnt for him but she knew she should push him away. She knew from her mother the true cost of lying with a Gypsy. Even so it felt so good to have him hold her, and she wanted him – and the security he could provide - so desperately, that she was lost. Since then they had lain together repeatedly and enjoyed each meeting.

It was when she'd begun to describe their physical coupling that an over-excited Elizabeth had begun to screech about how dangerous what she'd done had been and Molly hadn't dared to tell her any more. She longed to talk about it with someone who might have understood but Elizabeth was already operating at the very extreme of what she was comfortable with in even meeting with a nailer girl – this was far, far beyond her. If Molly was honest, she wasn't sure she could put words to it anyway. How anything could be so simultaneously frightening and arousing was beyond her understanding and nothing that had happened since had made it any clearer.

* * *

An hour later Molly was laying listlessly on the cot in her little cubicle at the cottage, wearing nothing but a fresh cotton shift which she had dampened to keep her cool. Granny was nodding in her chair by the banked cook-fire downstairs and Prudence was snoring on the straw mattress on the other side of the wattle screen, but tired and tipsy as she was Molly could not doze off in the sweltering heat. Light still flooded through the small deep-set windows, illuminating the mean little space.

Over the months Molly had decorated her small alcove. On the wall there were now a series of coloured postcards sent to her by the kind-hearted Father Grey on his periodic retreats to Torquay and Bude, along with bunches of dried herbs and flowers intended to dispel some of the gloom and stale air of the attic room. If she squinted, it now felt a little bit like home, and that in itself showed how low she had become. She had to get away, she had to.

As the light turned from golden to rose to blue, she found herself dwelling on the secret moments that she had spent with Finn. After that first time in the forge, Finn had taken gently by the hand and led her out through the garden to the canal. Pulling her through the bushes along the side of the cut he had taken her to a piece of flat ground surrounded by deep banks of ragged robin, loosestrife, and campions. They'd nestled down in the meadow grass and snuggled up together, Molly resting her head on Finn's slender chest whilst he wrapped his arms around her possessively.

Half-naked and wilted by the afternoon heat they had made desultory conversation for a while and then, with a young man's resilience, he had made love to her again. They had parted in bliss and their next meeting had been at the gypsy camp under the watchful eyes of the Lee family which had been wonderful but unsettling.

Since then, giddy with lust, they had met every day in the privacy of their meadow. As a cover, Finn turned up with a selection of foraged food on each occasion, enough to give Molly an excuse for disappearing for an hour or two at least: tiny tart wild strawberries; plums; a couple of young partridge. Whatever it was, it was all welcome at the Pritchett cottage. One day he had even turned up with a pack of nettle tips, wincing ruefully as he passed them over. With an embarrassed grin, he'd told her how the Lee girls had laughed at him as he collected them. Amongst the clan it was usually a job for children and he'd never learnt the skill of picking the delicate tips so he'd been stung half to death and his hands and arms had been all swollen. Molly had shown her gratitude with a smile, a kiss and, the careful application of a handful of dock leaves.

It was hard to bring herself back to the real world once he'd gone.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Finn usually slept in one of the four canvas lean-tos in the centre of the Lee camp. He shared his shelter with a few of the other unmarried clan lads. The ground was hard, softened only by piles of bracken and sweet-smelling grasses, but it was cosy enough, filled as it was by unwashed bodies, and the farts and untamed snores of four almost-grown men. It had been odd at first but he'd come to appreciate the rough camaraderie of his tent-mates – even the coarse chaffing he'd got for his relationship with a Molly. In some unfathomable way it reminded him of his childhood.

He'd idolised his older brothers when he was very young but, having done a lot of his growing whilst they were away at war, he'd struggled when they'd first come back home. They'd no longer been the happy-go-lucky heroes of his earliest years. Instead they had been harder, colder, and prone to outbursts of violence; even their humour had had a sharper, crueller edge. He'd worshiped them still but he'd found them frightening even so.

The Lee men hadn't gone to war so they hadn't brought back Tommy's nightmares, Arthur's psychotic rages, or John's unquenchable lusts. That made them relaxing company, even with the snoring and farting, but the relief was fading now that he was getting more involved with Molly and guilt was starting to interfere with his rest. If he was honest it was also starting to interfere with every other part of his life too – and he was losing control of his feelings.

Catholic guilt was a terrible thing but it was also familiar. Going with the whore his brothers had paid for had made him feel heart-sick and dirty but the well-practiced rites of confession and atonement had meant that it could be easily dealt with, and just as easily forgotten. So, he'd seen the priest, and said his rosary, and gradually the self-disgust had faded, leaving only a tendency to blush in unguarded moments when he found his thoughts straying to memories of the woman's hands on his cock. So much for the famed power of Catholic guilt, he thought. Black cess to it!

But there was another form of guilt which was far more pervasive. That guilt involved the fear of his letting his brothers down, or somehow making them look weak and therefore putting the family in harm's way. That was Shelby Clan guilt, and that was something else. One day he would be expected to bang a whore to ensure that he was no longer a figure of fun, another day he would be taking a razor to a man's eyes. There was no limit to it and no way of assuaging it. The brutality of it all sickened him but he had done his best to hide his feelings.

In the Lee camp, things were somehow less pressured but the morality of his decisions was more clear-cut. And so, if he had felt disgusted with himself about lying with a whore whom he knew was at least being well paid for her time, he felt even worse about taking the virginity of a poverty-stricken gadjie girl like Molly. That was the familiar throb of Catholic guilt but underpinning it all was the deeper, more all-consuming Shelby guilt. No matter what he felt for Molly, he knew that Tommy would be angry with him because he wouldn't want him to make a commitment to anyone who could not benefit the family.

Finn tried to ease his guilt by giving Molly gifts of food and overpaying her for her, admittedly excellent, shoeing work but it never seemed to be enough to quieten the voices in his head. In the revealing dark of the night he was plagued by bad dreams, seeing her thrown out on the streets and starving or screaming out her labour pains as she tried to birth his child alone and untended in the lean-to by the tumbledown cottage. He would wake gasping and sweating in the close darkness, surrounded by the stolid presence of the other unmarried lads. There would be no comfort or support from that quarter. For them, a gadgie girl was for fun and practice. When they moved on, they would leave their problems behind them. Finn could not do the same.

* * *

Molly woke every morning in the rank air of the dark little attic room in which she slept and prayed for something better. The pathetic keepsakes she had pinned to the wall, or propped up on the shelves, in her little bed nook, had given it a cosy and familiar feel. Despite her best endeavours she could no longer deny that this was now her home.

She found that she spent the day flitting between heaven and hell. She could deny him whilst she worked but when she was waiting for Finn in the meadow by the canal, or when they were laying together half naked in the long grass, she was jumping out of her skin with happiness and desire. The shame she felt for giving up her maidenhead so cheaply had faded. Instead she was desperately grateful for the chance she had been given.

They had coupled enough times now for her to learn the ecstasy his lean body could drive her to. His sweet face and gentle ways had become so dear to her. Along with Elizabeth, and her mother's letters, he was one of the few bright spots in her life. He was steady, reliable, kind - she could trust him she was sure of it. At the same time, she burned with a kind of intense guilt. She wanted him, she enjoyed his body, and she was grateful for the bounty he provided, but she did not truly love him. The truth of it burned at her every day.

* * *

When he was heading to see Molly, or when they were laying together, Finn believed that he was halfway to paradise. The sight of her, dirty and flushed from the forge, made his skin tingle, and the touch of her calloused hands on the soft pale skin of his belly raised him to fever pitch. Whether this was love or desire he could not tell – but he truly had very little to go on.

He remembered how John had been after his wedding night with Esme. Finn had only been young then – no more than a boy. He hadn't really understood the alchemy that arose between a well-matched couple. He wasn't ignorant. He'd known about fucking. Anyone who spent any time around the Peaky Blinders could hardly fail to notice what on between them and their whores. But the stuff that made your eyes shine, your soul blossom, and your dick twitch like it had a life of its own – that was new, and confusing, and somehow alien to him.

So, he laid in the canvas lean-to and lusted, and growled, and sweated. Sometimes it would take until daybreak until he managed to calm down from his nightmares, and even longer before the throb of guilt died away and he could sleep. And then the sun would creep towards its zenith and he would start thinking about seeing Molly. But he knew the Lees' were due to move on again soon and he still had no clue what to do about his woman.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Although begrudgingly grateful that she had kept him alive, Archie had not been happy to learn how Molly had been keeping the family fed during the sickness. He had very fixed ideas about a woman's place in the world and that did not include doing the type of chain work usually reserved for men or, worse, taking trade from honest farriers. Nailing had always been good enough for Pritchett women and his tiny mind could not conceive any other way for the world to be - even though the rest of Tipton had moved on. Worse still, between the chain making and the shoeing, she had been bringing home more money than he could and that stung his pride.

The more he thought about it the more he realised that he should never have let the old woman talk him in to letting Molly come here. The girl was a bad influence. Even Prudence seemed to have lost some of her fear of him lately; she didn't scramble to follow his orders quite so quickly anymore nor shrink in on herself when he glowered at her. And now his niece had a strange look in her eyes, as if she was seeing something other than bowing walls and sagging roof tiles of the little cottage. It annoyed him more than anything ever had before.

On top of that, she was still supplementing their diet with stuff she brought home from her evenings spent wandering along the cut and through the fields. She was never gone that long – an hour or two at most. It didn't seem feasible that she could collect half of what she did. He had half a mind to forbid her to go anywhere but the cottage and the forge but their food was better now than he could ever remember. So, although the sight of her across the table as they ate made bile burn in his throat, he gobbled up his meals as quickly as the rest.

He had to find a way to bring the little bitch to heel, and soon.

* * *

Molly didn't notice the brooding hatred in her uncle's eyes. She barely even felt the throbbing of her aching muscles anymore, let alone saw the mould speckling the walls, or gagged at the stink of the overflowing privy pit. She was flying now, her mind whirling a million miles an hour. She could still work metal and cook a decent meal – that much was muscle memory – but the rest fell away as she dreamed of her life to come. Her housework became barely perfunctory, her stitching uneven. In despair, her grandmother had stopped giving her mending to do as even the basic lessons her mother had drummed in to her could no longer be relied upon.

Though she sat quietly and patiently enough before the fire, Molly was miles away, fantasising about roaming free through the countryside with the Lees, sleeping under the stars, and giggling around the campfire with the other girls. Finn was her way out now and, if she asked him to take her with him, he would not say no - the look in his eyes after he spent himself in her was evidence of that. But despite her plans, and the overwhelming relief she felt when she thought of him, she could not ignore the cankerworm burrowing in her belly. Finn was good, kind, caring, and sweet - and she did not love him.

Sometimes the gnawing of the worm kept her awake at night.

* * *

For Archie, the one good thing about the increase in the family's income was that it meant he had more money to spend on ale and spirits. And so, for the fortnight or so after he was back on his feet, he spent all his free time at the Lame Dog, where he drank and stewed. But even in the pub, he could never escape his niece.

Everyone was talking about Molly. First that old fool Tom Block had told his grandson that he was renting out his old oliver to the Pritchetts and then, somehow, word had got out that she had been shoeing horses too. Someone had done the maths and worked out that she was likely earning more than he was – and that was all it took to make him a laughing stock. To an outsider the chaffing would have seemed friendly enough, but Archie knew better. They were goading him deliberately.

His so-called friends were the worst, constantly going on at him about how lucky he was to have a hired girl that made him so much money. They had worked him down to his last nerve but he'd managed to keep a lid on his temper. Right up until that last night.

It was Red Freddy started it. He had settled his vast, ginger-headed frame into the armchair next to the fire pit, taken one look at Archie's brooding face, and laughed his head off.

'Word is your girl is undercutting the farriers out at the racecourse', he said with conversationally. 'Hatchet faced though she is, with her skills with a hammer I'd take her to wife myself. If I wasn't already wed.'

Those within earshot snickered and began swapping ribald comments about how they'd break her to the harness.

Archie felt the blood rising in his face. To think this ignorant pig had nearly married his sister! Archie's lip curled beneath his thick moustache and he made an elaborate pretence of smoothing down the greasy pelt. He was stuck. If he admitted she was his blood then even these drunken brutes would stop their filthy mouths but that would also mean admitting that she was his sister's bastard. He took a deep draft from his mug of mild and then downed his last tot of brandy.

Freddy seemed to spot Archie's discomfort. Ever willing to exploit a friend's vulnerability, he banged his pewter tankard against the wooden arm of his chair. The drunken men in the snug fell silent and watched him expectantly. They knew enough to scent blood in the water.

'Lads, lads', he bellowed. 'Hold your horses! Word is she's been after doing business with the Pikies on the edge of town. Maybe she's been earning money on her back rather than at the forge.' Freddy's eyes glinted maliciously as he saw Archie's jaw and fists clench. 'Better hope she doesn't get a belly full like your whore of a sister did!'

Well that was too much for Archie. He threw himself at Red Freddy, smashing his tankard against the man's skull before tipping him out of his chair. Then he used his fists and boots to turn the man's face into a bloody pulp. The others watched, mouths gaping, for a few seconds and then, realising they might have a murder on their hands, they staggered forward to break it up. In the end, it took three men just to pull Archie off of the whimpering heap on the floor and half a dozen more to send him on his way.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

It was barely dusk and the little cottage was already wreathed in silence.

Archie had left for the pub the moment dinner was done. Full bellies, a long day in the forge, and the warmth of the cook fire had lulled the women to drowsiness not long after, and not even nagging everyday chores could keep them from their beds. All three were now lost in the dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted - Granny on a straw-filled mattress before the banked fire, surrounded by the comforting scent of the fried liver, cabbage, and onion gravy they had had for their supper; Prue and Molly in the gloom of the upstairs room where the stink of damp, sweat, and cheap candles still held sway. It was peaceful scene, and one repeated in most of the houses in the streets near about.

When Archie half staggered, half-fell through the front door sometime later his mother was the first to wake. Confused and bleary-eyed from sleep, she dragged herself upright just in time for her son's loosely clenched fist to catch her on the cheek.

* * *

Molly woke up with a start, clawing her way up through the fog of deep sleep to consciousness. Clattering and grunts from downstairs had cut right through the airless silence in the attic. Sitting bolt upright, she listened out for the next thud or cry, heart beating fast in in panic. She didn't have to wait for long. There was the sound of shattering pottery and then the muffled thud of fist hitting flesh.

She stared wide eyed out into the darkness trying to work out what was going on. As she became accustomed to the half-light, she managed to identify the outline of her Aunt Prue. The woman was nothing more than a dim shape huddled back against the whitewashed wall at the other side of the room but her hoarse panicked breathing seemed deafening.

Molly reached out to light the candle stub resting in the jam-jar lid on the trunk next to her bed. As the match flared her aunt launched herself towards her, floating silent as a ghost across the wooden floor despite her muscular bulk.

'Put it out you stupid bitch', she hissed. 'If he thinks we're awake he'll come up here and take his anger out on us.' Her face was harsh in the flickering light, and then the match went out. Molly dropped the hot switch on the jam-jar lid and sucked at her burnt fingers.

She stared up at her aunt stupidly, rubbing at the sleep in her eyes with the palm of one hand and trying to focus on the outline of Prue's haggard face. At first, Molly was confused by the woman's concern, and then with a sinking feeling, she realised that her aunt was, perhaps understandably, desperate to avoid her husband's punches and kicks, even if that mean an elderly woman was forced to take the brunt of them.

Reluctant though she was to face Archie, Molly had been raised to do better that to ignore the abuse of an elder and she got out of bed and pushed her aunt briskly aside.

'Either help me stop him, or get out of my way', she hissed. Her aunt stepped back, pulling her shawl tightly about her, and shaking her head frantically. Standing tall Molly rolled back her shoulders, strengthened by long hours wielding a hammer, and glared at the other woman. 'I don't know what happened to make you like this but you deserve everything you get. I'm never going to be as weak as you!'

* * *

Molly crept softly downstairs, hoping to see what was going on before Archie noticed her presence. The small parlour was in complete disarray. The well-scrubbed dining table was tipped on its side, mismatched crockery shattered on the beaten-earth floor, and the one good chair – Granny's chair – was missing a leg. That leg was now being wielded as a crude cudgel by Archie.

Granny Pritchett was on the ground curled up protecting her belly with clawed hands held up to cover her head. As she saw Archie land another blow on Granny's prone body Molly felt herself cringe in response but no matter how much she wanted to run and hide she could not abandon the one person in her family who had shown her any kindness. Fear and anger made the bile rise in her gorge.

Without giving herself time to think, she propelled herself from the foot of the staircase onto Archie's back, fists clenched and strong arms flailing. Archie flew back against the wall, stunned from the impact. The cudgel rolled out of site. Molly followed up with punches and kicks but with her bare feet the latter barely registered in the man's consciousness. Now even more irate he pushed himself upward with a bellow of rage and began to lay into her.

Rage had by now sobered Archie considerably and he had the benefit of body mass and extensive experience of how to inflict violence and pain on another person. He quickly overwhelmed Molly. His fists pounded down on her prone body, pulping, bruising, shattering. She had no way to fight back, and he was not inclined to mercy.

Eventually, when she thought she could bare the pain no longer, she was swallowed up by darkness.

* * *

Consciousness proved to be hard to grasp hold of, especially when it came packaged with large portions of pain. Molly's first attempt at opening her eyes caused her to vomit profusely and left her with a mouth full of bile which only made her more nauseous. Someone fed her sips of beef tea which made the foul taste go away but also made her retch again.

At some point, someone had dragged her out to the forge shed and left her on a pile of sacks in the corner. The stinking rags provided little comfort to her tormented body and she lay there, stirring fitfully, and dreaming of the sagging mattress on her little attic bed. At least the heat of the forge fire kept her warm and the sound of hammer on metal reminded her that she was not yet dead.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Molly was awoken by the sound of her mother's singing and the enticing scent of bacon frying in the kitchen below. Her eyes fluttered open and, blissfully comfortable, she sighed in contentment. The summer sun was flooding in through the low window filling the space with a honey-warm glow. She felt a moment of pure happiness.

She didn't want to get up. The mattress beneath her was of good quality ticking but worn enough to mould to the contours of her body. The sheets and patchwork quilt that enveloped her had been lovingly, if unevenly, stitched by her mother. It was a comfortable place to nestle, and she snuggled deeper under the covers, ignoring the little nudges her full bladder was giving her, unwilling to fully give herself up to the day.

She loved her bedroom; it was small but cosy. Whilst her friends were forced to share rooms and even beds with their siblings, as an only child she had the place to herself. Most of the space was taken up by a bed with an ornate iron frame that her father had made for her when she was a child – a simple expression of his love for her.

A small dresser, filled with clothes and then piled high with a jumble of books and magazines, took up most of the rest of the available space. Under the bed she stored the tools her father had made for her. On the whitewashed walls there were a few prim embroidered bible verses but they were almost totally obliterated by clippings of her favourite movie stars.

Downstairs her had mother embarked on a new song. Stretching lazily, Molly grinned at the pure happiness in her mother's voice. She also winced a little. Her mother's voice was a bit like that of a tom cat on the prowl - powerful, piercing, and aggressively discordant. Molly's bladder began to protest more forcefully too; it was no good, she was going to have to get up and use the po.

Five minutes later, fully dressed and with her hair neatly brushed and tied back, she hurtled down the stairs intending to go straight through to see her mother in the kitchen and snaffle up some of the bacon. She got no further than the parlour door. Her father was seated at the table, smiling at the sound of his wife in the other room, and spreading butter on slices of freshly cut bread ready to construct butties for them all.

Her father was in his good shirt and freshly shaved. That meant it was Sunday. The clock on the mantle said 10 o'clock. Plenty of time for breakfast before the three of them left for church. Sitting down at the table opposite her father and taking the bacon butty he handed to her she looked at him quizzically. Something wasn't quite right but she couldn't articular what it was.

She ate hungrily. The bacon was smoky, the butter rich and salty, and the bread still slightly warm from the oven. That meant that her mother must have already been to the bakers with the meat to roast for Sunday dinner. Chicken she assumed if she'd gone so early. Along with bread sauce and stuffing, and potatoes roasted in dripping, it was Molly's favourite. Despite already having a mouth full, she could hear her stomach growling at the thought of it. She flexed her back to quiet her belly; it hurt. She must have slept awkwardly but with her hunger sated she really didn't care.

'I thought you'd sleep forever', her mother said from the door, a broad smile lightening her thin, tired face. 'But you were so peaceful I couldn't bear to wake you.' She crossed the floor to join them at the table, pausing only to rest her hand lovingly on her husband's shoulder. Molly watched as her father tipped his head and rested his cheek briefly on his wife's hand.

Molly smiled softly as she watched her parents talk idly of this and that. It was nothing exciting - village gossip mostly, the price of coal and iron, and whether they would need new coats before winter. It was almost as if she wasn't there at all and yet she didn't feel excluded. Their love filled the house and it encompassed her too. She felt her heart swell with pleasure. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen them so contented together. Not since… well she couldn't quite put her finger on it. It probably didn't matter.

Breakfast over, she went upstairs to fetch her gloves and prayer book almost tripping over herself in her haste to get back to the warmth of her parent's happiness. It seemed to take ages to find what she was looking for and when she finally made it back downstairs the house was empty, cold and dark.

On the table, the family's usual breakfast crockery was gone and in its place was a posy of wildflowers - her mother's favourites – tied with a scrap of black velvet ribbon. Confused but with an increasing sense of dread, she looked around her. Her mother's photograph, displayed on the dresser, was draped in black crepe. The house smelt of damp and sour beer. Cold prickled at her skin.

Calling desperately for her father she searched the house and then made her way outside. She was limping now from the increasing pains in her torso and legs and it made her movements tentative and awkward. The wind was up, swirling autumn-dead leaves around her feet, and she shivered. What had happened to the summer?

Molly walked hesitantly towards her father's forge, heart pounding. Smoke from the chimney indicated that the fire was lit but there were no sounds coming from within. Suddenly she knew what this was. She'd been here before.

Fear and distress held her in place for the longest time, but eventually, with tears streaming down her face, she pulled open the door. She knew what she would find if she went inside but she had to be sure.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Johnny Dogs lifted the canvas flap of the bivouac and recoiled slightly as the dense musky odour of sweaty young men invaded his nostrils. He'd grown up under canvas himself though, so although the smell was ripe it was familiar rather than offensive. Scratching at the end of his nose absentmindedly, he peered inside.

The youngest Shelby was right near the front, nestled in a tangle of rough blankets and sheepskins along with two of the unmarried Lee boys. He was laid flat-out on his back with his arms thrown out wide, as relaxed as a babe in its crib. His slow, steady breathing indicated that he was deeply asleep.

Finn looked as hale as he had been the last time Johnny had seen him - and it was clear from the smile that split his sweet, sun-warmed face that he was dreaming of something interesting. Johnny Dogs snorted in amusement when he looked more closely and saw just how 'interesting' it appeared to be.

He could guess was running thorough the lad's head right now, and he could hardly blame him. Molly was a choice piece alright. She had a talent for shoeing and, from Finn's blushing whispers, it seemed like she knew a woman's business well enough. The girl wasn't beautiful but a wise man soon learned to look beyond the things that faded.

Johnny had watched the pair's relationship develop over the last couple of months – the shy courtship, the blushing, the gifts of food, the new swagger that occasionally overwhelmed Finn's natural reticence. He was too cynical to find it romantic but knew that the lad was both smitten and struggling with what to do next.

Finn was in an awkward position. He wasn't the 'love 'em and leave 'em' kind, like his brothers. On the other hand, if he took a gadgie girl like Mollie to wife, he risked causing issues with clans linked to the Shelby's such as the Lees – and loss of face was a serious problem.

Even a diplomat like Johnny, who looked on the lad like a nephew, couldn't think of a way to keep everyone happy if Finn decided to make a permanent thing of his relationship with the nailer girl. So, he watched and waited… and now he came to force the lad to make a decision, even if only by default. It was almost a shame to rouse him but needs must.

Reaching forward with the tip of one grimy boot, Johnny Dogs prodded Finn awake.

'Wake up now, boy. There's business to be done an' Tommy's callin' ya home.' Johnny Dogs' dark eyes sparkled with excitement even in the pre-dawn light. There was money to be made and he was keen to get as much of it for himself as he could.

Finn woke with a groan and ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. Blinking up at his brother's most trusted friend, who loomed above him in the half-light, he gave him a half-hearted glare.

'At this time of day?' He growled, sitting up and pulling some of the blankets over himself in an effort to cover his erection. 'What's his bloody rush?'

'Tommy's got himself a new hobby.' Johnny chortled to himself. 'You're off to the footba'!

Finn groaned and rolled his eyes. His brother had become involved all kind of strange new shit since he'd got into politics - and that wasn't the worst of it. Recently, he'd been getting harder, more unstable. He was almost as bad now as he had been right after he had been demobbed in 1918. Even the devoted Lizzie was finding it hard to bite her tongue over his behaviour.

Tommy had tried taking the family legit. When that had failed, he'd tried simply cutting his brothers off from the shadier side of the business. Unfortunately, Michael had fucked all that up by losing most of the family's clean money in the Wall Street crash. Tommy was being forced to diversify and so god only knew what this new wheeze was about. Finn doubted it was anything he would enjoy.

Above all, Finn was not pleased to have been woken up so early and, though he couldn't put words to it, he wasn't keen to be taken away from his burgeoning relationship with Molly either. At the beginning he'd thought that familiarity would take the edge off his desire for her, but the more time he spent with her, the more he wanted.

Almost entirely against his will she had become an all-encompassing need; as vital to his survival as his family, oxygen, or one of the tasty stews the Lee women cooked up in a succession battered tins over the campfire. Part of him was excited by the novelty of it. Part of him was terrified of the power it had over him. He hardly dared think what Tommy would say if he told him.

Molly now invaded his thoughts constantly and almost anything could trigger a flash of desire: the swish of a girl's kilted skirts as she laid out the clean laundry to dry; the crackle of a banked cook-fire; the scent of horseflesh. Even the sting of nettle leaves on his skin could leave him with an erection that could knock down walls.

If anything, the nights were worse. More than once one of his tent mates had elbowed or kicked him for disturbing them with one of his nocturnal fantasies. That morning had been no exception.

When Johnny arrived, Finn had been in the grip of a very intense dream in which Molly was instructing him in the art of shoeing horses. In the heat of the forge, she had stripped completely naked, and her sweaty, soot-smudged body had glistened enticingly in the light from the coals as she bent and twisted, then swung her hammer to form iron into whatever shapes she required. He had wanted very badly to fuck her but each time he had reached for her she had laughed and slipped out of his grasp.

The ache of frustrated lust had remained with him as he woke, and his embarrassed attempts to cover his erection whilst talking to Johnny Dogs had only served to disturb his tent mates further. With bad grace, and a series of cutting observations, they had begun their usual dawn chorus of farts, yawns, and oaths.

Watching on, Johnny sniggered at Finn's discomfort, and then said something obscene in Shelta which set the Lees to laughing.

With bad grace and flaming cheeks, Finn began to pack.


End file.
